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nineteenth Ccntur?
literature

purcbasefc in part
tbreutfb a contribution to tbe
Xtbranp f un&0 mabe bv tbe
Department ot EnQlleb in
College.

HALF-HOURS

\\TTM

THE BEST AUTHORS.

VOL. III.

COWPER __ WORDSWORTH.
BURNS _ JOHNSON __ SCOTT.

E. CC-DSM ITH.

HALF-HOURS

WITH

THE BEST AUTHORS

INCLUDING BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES,

BY CHARLES KNIGHT.

WITH FIFTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM HARVEY.

(Etution.

REMODELLED AND REVISED BY THE ORIGINAL EDITOR.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE & CO.,

BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1866.

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

SUBJECT.

AUTHOR. PAGB

183. Of a State of Probation, as implying Trial, Difficulties, )
and Danger j

BISHOP BUTLER

184. Rienzi

GIBBON .

185. On the Receipt of his Mother's Picture ....

COWPER .

186. The Law of Prices

CHALMERS

187. Characters

SIR THOS. OVERBURY

188. John Locke and William Penn

BANCROFT

189. The Lion and the Spaniel

BROOKE .

190. The Christian Revelation the Sure Standard of Morality

LOCKE .

191. The Liberty of Unlicensed Printing

MILTON

Cow LEY

193. On Peace

CLARENDON .

VARIOUS

195. Character of Jonathan Wild

FIELDING

196. The Homeless Wanderer .......

CHARLOTTE BRONT^

197. Sermon upon the Love of our Neighbour

BISHOP BUTLER

198. The Bittern

MUDIE

HAWTHORNE .

105

200. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner § i. . . )

COLERIDGE . \

201. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner § 2. . . . i

116

WILLIAM PENN

121

203. Cowper's Tame Hares

COWPER .

125

204. On Prayer

OGDEN .

132

LONGFELLOW

137

CHENEVIX . .

133

206. The English Translators of Homer .....

VARIOUS

I46

207. Urn Burial .........

SIR THOS. BROWNE

153

VARIOUS

161

H. MARTINEAU

165

210. Youthful Friendship

JOHN WILSON

168

211. Holy Sonnets

DONNE .

174

Sonnet, from the French of Desbarreaux

H. K. WHITE

18:

vj CONTENTS.

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE

212. Luxury SIR G. MACKENZIE 181

2 Mirth ARCHDEACON HARE 190

f BEAUMONT AND

214. The Page's Scenes in Philaster \ FLETCHER . 197

215. On the Inherent Pleasure of the Virtuous and Misery ) CHALMERS . 202

of the Vicious Affections ;

.16. Alexander Selkirk STEELE . . 210

217. Rinaldo and Armida TASSO . . .214

218. The Victories of Love HERMAN HOOKER 218

219. Progress of English Literature JEFFREY . . 223

220. Clouds and Winds VARIOUS . . 232

221. Chevy Chase A. CUNNINGHAM . 236

222. Columbus at Barcelona WASHINGTON IRVING 241

223. The Ariel Among the Shoals . . . . . . COOPER . . .245

224. On the Sagacity of the Spider GOLDSMITH . . 255

225. Jerusalem DR KITTO . . 259

226. The Patriotic Songs of Great Britain — I VARIOUS . . 265

227. Poetry of the Age of Elizabeth THOMAS WARTON 270

228. Shipwreck of the Meduse French Frigate . . . Quarterly Review 279

229. London in the Time of Chaucer GODWIN . . 284

230. Gulliver and the King of Brobdingnag .... SWIFT . . . 291

231. Good and Bad Fortune PETRARCH . . 297

232. Reflections on War ROBERT HALL . 301

Hohenlinden THOMAS CAMPBELL 306

233. A Defence of Enthusiasm H. T. TUCKERMAN 397

234. To his Brother KEATS . . .317

235. The Character of Keats MONCTON MILNES 322

236. The Plague-Stricken Village GEORGE ELIOT . 326

237. The Moon VARIOUS . . 337

238. The Beautiful and the Useful WIELAND . . 341

239. Earthly Things • GURNALL . . 346

240. The Heir of Linne ANONYMOUS . . 352

241. The Battle of the Nile SOUTHEY . 357

242. Early Adventures of Colonel Jack DEFOE . . . 365

243. Every-Day Characters PRAED . . . 374

244. Character of Brutus G. LONG . . 380

245. On the Athenian Orators ANONYMOUS . . 385

246. The Children of Light ARCHDEACON HARE 390

247. The Scottish Borderers SCOTT . . . 397

248. Autumnal Field Sports VARIOUS . . 405

249. Remedies of Discontents BURTON , . . 412

250. The Good Parson DRYDEN . . .419

251. The Hurricane AUDUBON . . 423

a sa. The Introduction of Tea and Coffee . . ... D'!SRAELI . 426

CONTENTS.

Vll

SUBJECT.

253. Of the Lord's-Day

Sabbath Evening Hymn

254. Character of Colonel Hutchinson

255. Death of Socrates

256. Robin Hood

257. A Little Geste of Robin Hood

258. The Quarrel of Squire Bull and his Son ....

259. The Progress of Discontent

260. Resolutions

261. Of his own Studies ........

262. Habits of the Red Deer

263. Sea Songs

264. Cottier Rents

265. Movement of the Reformation

266. Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition

267. On the Immortality of the Soul

268. Epitaphs

269. Escape of Charles the Second after the Battle of Worcester

270. Artegal and the Giant .......

271. The Nile and the Desert

272. Society at Naples ........

273. A Farewell to Tobacco

AUTHOR.
CAVE

ANONYMOUS .
MRS HUTCHINSON
PLATO

PAGE
432

. 438
438

• 445

ANONYMOUS .

PAULDING

T. WARTON .

BISHOP BEVERIDGE

MILTON

SCROPE

VARIOUS

PROFESSOR JONES

D'AUBIGNg .

HORACE SMITH

ARCHBP. LEIGHTON

WORDSWORTH

CHARLES II. .

SPENSER

H. MARTINEAU

FORSYTH

CHARLES LAMB

HALF-HOURS

WITH

THE BEST AUTHORS.

183. — ©f a Siafe 0f IJrotrafam:, as wiplgimj CriaJ,
gifficulibs, antr

BISHOP BUTLER.

[FROM the "Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitu-
tion and Course of Nature." In this work it was the author's aim to demon-
strate the connexion between the present and a future state, and to show that
there could be but one author of both, and consequently one general system oi
moral government by which they must be regulated. Of this admirable work
it has been justly observed, " Upon the whole, as oar author was the first
who handled the argument in proof of religion from analogy in a set ti'eatise,
he has undeniably merited the character of a first discoverer ; others indeed
had occasionally dropped some hints and remarks of the argument, but Dr
Butler first brought it to a state of perfection. The treatise contains the
finishing and completion of that way of reasoning of which he laid the founda-
tion in his sermons."]

The general doctrine of religion, that our present life is a state
of probation for a future one, comprehends under it several par-
ticular things, distinct from each other. But the first and most
common meaning of it seems to be, that our future interest is now
depending, and depending upon ourselves ; that we have scope
and opportunities here, for that good and bad behaviour, which

VOL. III. A

2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

God will reward and punish hereafter ; together with temptations
to one, as well as inducements of reason to the other. And this
is, in a great measure, the same with saying, that we are under
the moral government of God, and to give an account of our
actions to Him. For the notion of a future' account and general
righteous judgment implies some sort of temptations to what is
wrong ; otherwise there would be no moral possibility of doing
wrong, nor ground for judgment or discrimination. But there is
this difference, that the word probation is more distinctly and par-
ticularly expressive of allurements to wrong, or difficulties in
adhering uniformly to what is right, and of the danger of mis-
carrying by such temptations, than the words moral government.
A state of probation, then, as thus particularly implying in it
trial, difficulties, and danger, may require to be considered dis-
tinctly by itself.

And as the moral government of God, which religion teaches
us, implies that we are in a state of trial with regard to a future
world ; so also His natural government over us implies that we
are in a state of trial, in the like sense, with regard to the present
world. Natural government by rewards and punishments as
much implies natural trial, as moral government does moral trial.
The natural government of God here meant consists in His
annexing pleasure to some actions, and pain to others, which are
in our power to do or forbear, and in giving us notice of such
appointment beforehand. This necessarily implies, that He has
made our happiness and misery, or our interest, to depend in part
upon ourselves. And so far as men have temptations to any
course of action, which will probably occasion them greater tem-
poral inconvenience and uneasiness than satisfaction; so far
their temporal interest is in danger from themselves, or they are
in a state of trial with respect to it. Now people often blame
others, and even themselves, for their misconduct in their tem-
poral concerns. And we find many are greatly wanting to them-
selves, and miss of that natural happiness which they might have
obtained in the present life : perhaps every one does in some
degree. But many run themselves into great inconvenience, and

BISHOP BUTLER.] OF A STA TE OF PROBA TION. 3

into extreme distress and misery, not through the incapacity of
knowing better, and doing better for themselves, which would be
nothing to the present purpose, but through their owil fault.
And these things necessarily imply temptation, and danger of
miscarrying, in a greater or less degree, with respect to our
worldly interest or happiness. Every one too, without having
religion in his thoughts, speaks of the hazards which young people
run upon their setting out in the world : hazards from other
causes than merely their ignorance and unavoidable accidents.
And some courses of vice, at least, being contrary to men's
worldly interest or good ; temptations to these must at the same
time be temptations to forego our present and our future interest.
Thus, in our natural or temporal capacity, we are in a state of
trial, i.e.t of difficulty and danger, analogous or like to our moral
and religious trial.

This will more distinctly appear to any one who thinks it worth
while more distinctly to consider what it is which constitutes our
trial in both capacities, and to observe how mankind behave
under it.

And that which constitutes this our trial, in both these capa-
cities, must be somewhat either in our external circumstances, or
in our nature. For, on the one hand, persons may be betrayed
into wrong behavioui upon surprise, or overcome upon any other
very singular and extraordinary external occasions, who would
otherwise have preserved their character of prudence and of
virtue : in which cases every one, in speaking of the wrong be-
haviour of these persons, would impute it to such particular
external circumstances. And, on the other hand, men who have
contracted habits of vice and folly of any kind, or have some par-
ticular passions in excess, will seek opportunities, and, as it were,
go out of their way to gratify themselves in these respects, at the
expense of their wisdom and their virtue ; led to it, as eveiy one
would say, not by external temptations, but by such habits and
passions. And the account of this last case is, that particular
passions are no more coincident with prudence or that reasonable
self-love, the end of which is our worldly interest, than they are

4 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

with the principle of virtue and religion ; but often draw contrary
to one, as well as to the other; and so such particular
passions are as much temptations to act imprudently, with regard
to our worldly interest, as to act viciously *t However, as when
we say men are misled by external circumstances of temptation,
it cannot but be understood that there is somewhat within them-
selves to render those circumstances temptations, or to render
them susceptible of impressions from them ; so, when we say they
are misled by passions, it is always supposed that there are
occasions, circumstances, and objects exciting these passions, and
affording means for gratifying them. And therefore temptations
from within and from without coincide, and mutually imply each
other. Now, the several external objects of the appetites, pas-
sions, and affections, being present to the senses, or offering
themselves to the mind, and so exciting emotions suitable to their
nature, not only in cases where they can be gratified consistently
with innocence and prudence, but also in cases where they cannot,
and yet can be gratified imprudently and viciously ? this as really
puts them in danger of voluntarily foregoing their present interest
or good as their future, and as really renders self-denial necessary
to secure one as the other ; i.e., we are in a like state ot trial with
respect to both, by the very same passions, excited by the very
same means. Thus, mankind having a temporal interest depend-
ing upon themselves, and a prudent course of behaviour being
necessary to secure it, passions inordinately excited, whether by
means of example, or by any other external circumstance,
towards such objects, at such times, or in such degrees as that
they cannot be gratified consistently with worldly prudence, are
temptations, dangerous and too often successful temptations, to
forego a greater temporal good for a less ; i.e., to forego what is,
upon the whole, our temporal interest, for the sake of a present
gratification. This is a description of our state of trial in our
temporal capacity. Substitute now the word future for temporal,
and virtue for prudence, and it will be just as proper a description
of our state of trial in our religious capacity, so analogous are
they to each other.

BISHOP BUTLER.] OF A STATE OF PROBATION. tj

If, from consideration of this our like state of trial in both
capacities, we go on to observe farther how mankind behave
under it, we shall find there are some who have so little sense of
it that they scarce look beyond the passing day; they are so
taken up with present gratifications as to have, in a manner, no
feeling of consequences, no regard to their future ease or fortune
in this life, any more than to their happiness in another. Some
appear to be blinded and deceived by inordinate passion in their
worldly concerns, as much as in religion. Others are not de-
ceived, but, as it were, forcibly carried away by the like passions,
against their better judgment and feeble resolutions too of acting
better. And there are men, and truly they are not a few, who
shamelessly avow, not their interest, but their mere will and
pleasure, to be their law of life ; and who, in open defiance of
everything that is reasonable, will go on in a course of vicious
extravagance, foreseeing, with no remorse and little fear, that it
will be their temporal ruin ; and some of them, under the appre-
hension of the consequences of wickedness in another state.
And, to speak in the most moderate way, human creatures are
not only continually liable to go wrong voluntarily, but we see
likewise that they often actually do so with respect to their
temporal interests, as well as with respect to religion.

Thus our difficulties and dangers, or our trials, in our temporal
and our religious capacity, as they proceed from the same causes,
and have the same effect upon men's behaviour, are evidently
analogous, and of the same kind.

It may be added, that as the difficulties and dangers of mis-
carrying in our religious state of trial are greatly increased, and,
one is ready to think, in a manner wholly made by the ill be-
haviour of others ; by a wrong education, wrong in a moral sense,
sometimes positively vicious, by general bad example, by the dis-
honest artifices which are got into business of all kinds, and, in
very many parts of the world, by religion being corrupted into
superstitions, which indulge men in their vices ; so in like manner
the difficulties of conducting ourselves prudently in respect to
our present interest, and our danger of being led aside from

6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

pursuing it, are greatly increased by a foolish education ; and,
after we come to mature age, by the extravagance and careless-
ness of others whom we have intercourse with, and by mistaken
notions very generally prevalent, and taken up for common
opinion, concerning temporal happiness, and wherein it consists.
And persons, by their own negligence and folly in their temporal
affairs, no less than by a course of vice, bring themselves into
new difficulties, and by habits of indulgence become less qualified
to go through them ; and one irregularity after another embar-
rasses things to such a degree that they know not whereabout
they are, and often makes the path of conduct so intricate and
perplexed, that it is difficult to trace it out— difficult even to de-
termine what is the prudent or the moral part. Thus, for instance,
wrong behaviour in one stage of life, youth — wrong, I mean, con-
sidering ourselves only in our temporal capacity, without taking
in religion — this, in several ways, increases the difficulties of right
behaviour in mature age, i.e.t puts us into a more disadvantageous
state of trial in our temporal capacity.

\Ve are an inferior part of the creation of God. There are
natural appearances of our being in a state of degradation. And
we certainty are in a condition which does not seem by any means
the most advantageous we could imagine or desire, either in our
natural or moral capacity, for securing either our present or future
interest. However, this condition, low, and careful, and uncer-
tain as it is, does not afford any just ground of complaint. For
as men may manage their temporal affairs with prudence, and so
pass their days here on earth in tolerable ease and satisfaction by
a moderate degree of care ; so likewise with regard to religion,
there is no more required than what they are well able to do, and
what they must be greatly wanting to themselves if they neglect.
And for persons to have that put upon them which they are well
able to go through, and no more, we naturally consider as an
equitable thing, supposing it done by proper authority. Nor have
we any more reason to complain of it, with regard to the Author
* iture, than of His not having given us other advantages be-
longing to other orders of creatures.

BISHOP BUTLER.] OF A STA TE OF PROBA TION. 7

But the thing here insisted upon is, that the state of trial which
religion teaches us we are in is rendered credible by its being
throughout uniform, and of a piece with the general conduct of
Providence towards us, in all other respects within the compass
of our knowledge. Indeed, if mankind, considered in their
natural capacity as inhabitants of this world only, found them-
selves, from their birth to their death, in a settled state of security
and happiness, without any solicitude or thought of their own, or
if they were in no danger of being brought into inconveniences
and distress, by carelessness or the folly of passion, through bad
example, the treachery of others, or the deceitful appearances of
things — were this our natural condition, then it might seem
strange, and be some presumption against the truth of religion,
that it represents our future and more general interest, as not
secure of course, but as depending upon our behaviour, and re-
quiring recollection and self-government to obtain it. For it
might be alleged, " What you say is our condition in one respect
is not in anywise of a sort with what we find by experience our
condition is in another. Our whole present interest is secured
to our hands without any solicitude of ours ; and why should not
our future interest, if we have any such, be so too ? " But since,
on the contrary, thought and consideration, the voluntary denying
ourselves many things which we desire, and a course of behaviour
far from being always agreeable to us, are absolutely necessary to
our acting even a common decent and common prudent part, so
as to pass with any satisfaction through the present world, and
be received upon any tolerable good terms in it — since this is the
case, all presumption against self-denial and attention being
necessary to secure our higher interest is removed. Had we
not experience, it might, perhaps, speciously be urged, that it is
improbable anything of hazard and danger should be put upon
us by an infinite Being ; when everything which is hazard and
danger in our manner of conception, and will end in error, con-
fusion, and misery, is now already certain in His foreknowledge.
And, indeed, why anything of hazard and danger should be put
upon such frail creatures as we are may well be thought a diffi-

g HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON.

culty in speculation, and cannot but be so, till we know the
whole, or, however, much more of the case. But still the consti-
tution of Nature is as it is. Our happiness and misery are trusted
to our conduct, and made to depend upon it. Somewhat, and
in many circumstances a great deal too, is put upon us either to
do or to suffer, as we choose. And all the various miseries of
life, which people bring upon themselves by negligence and folly,
and might have avoided by proper care, are instances of this ;
which miseries are beforehand just as contingent and undeter-
mined as their conduct, and left to be determined by it.

These observations are an answer to the objections against the
credibility of a state of trial, as implying temptations, and real
danger of miscarrying with regard to our general interest, under
the moral government of God : and they show that, if we are at
all to be considered in such a capacity, and as having such an
interest, the general analogy of Providence must lead us to ap-
prehend ourselves in danger of miscarrying, in different degrees,
as to this interest, by our neglecting to act the proper part be-
longing to us in that capacity. For we have a present interest
under the government of God, which we experience here upon
earth. And this interest, as it is not forced upon us, so neither
is it offered to our acceptance, but to our acquisition ; in such
sort, as that we are in danger of missing it, by means of tempta-
tions to neglect or act contrary to it, and without attention and
self-denial, must and do miss of it. It is then perfectly credible
that this may be our case with respect to that chief and final
good which religion proposes to us.

GIBBON.

EDWARD GIBBON has written his autobiography. He says, " I was born

at Putney, in the county of Surrey, the 2yth of April, O.S., in the year 1737;

il of the marriage of Edward Gibbon, Esq., and of Judith Porten.

My lot might have been that of a slave, a savage, or a peasant j nor can I re-

GIBBON.] RIENZI. g

fleet without pleasure on the bounty of nature, which cast my birth in a free
and civilised country, in an age ot science and philosophy, in a family of hon-
ourable rank, and decently endowed with the gifts of fortune." How much
of character there is in this brief notice ! Half a century elapses, and we find
in the same autobiography this most interesting record of the completion of the
great labour of Gibbon's life — the " History of the Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire : " — " It was on the day, 01 rather night, of the 2yth of June
1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of
the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen,
I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands
a prospect of the country, the lake, [Lausanne,] and the mountains. The air
was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected
from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emo-
tions of joy on recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my
fame; But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread
over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and
agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future date of my
History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious." Gibbon's
early education was rather defective ; he went to Oxford, where he remained
only fourteen months, having become a convert to Romanism ; his father sent
him to Switzerland, and he was reconverted to Protestantism : all this ended
in religious indifference, which is too visible in his great work. The occupa-
tions of his life were chiefly literary. He died in London in 1 794.]

IN a quarter of the city which was inhabited only by mechanics
and Jews, the marriage of an innkeeper and a washerwoman pro-
duced the future deliverer of Rome. From such parents Nicholas
Rienzi Gabrini could inherit neither dignity nor fortune ; and the
gift of a liberal education, which they painfully bestowed, was the
cause of his glory and untimely end. The study of history and
eloquence, the writings of Cicero, Seneca, Livy, Caesar, and Val-
erius Maximus, elevated above his equals and contemporaries the
genius of the young plebeian ; he perused with indefatigable dili-
gence the manuscripts and marbles of antiquity; loved to dispense
his knowledge in familiar language ; and was often provoked to
exclaim, " Where are now these Romans 1 their virtue, their
justice, their power? Why was I not born in those happy times!"
When the republic addressed to the throne of Avignon an em-
bassy of the three orders, the spirit and eloquence of Rienzi re-
commended him to a place among the thirteen deputies of the

10 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON.

commons. The orator had the honour of haranguing Pope
Clement the Sixth, and the satisfaction of conversing with Pet-
rarch, a congenial mind ; but his aspiring hopes were chilled by
disgrace and poverty; and the patriot was reduced to a single
garment and the charity of the hospital. From this misery he
was relieved by the sense of merit and the smile of favour; and

the employment of apostolic notary afforded him a daily stipend
of five gold florins, a more honourable and extensive connexion,
and the right of contrasting both in words and actions his own
integrity with the vices of the state. . . .

A prophecy, or rather a summons, affixed on the church door
of St George, was the first public evidence of his designs ; a
nocturnal assembly of an hundred citizens on Mount Aventine,
the first step to their execution. After an oath of secrecy and
aid, he represented to the conspirators the importance and facility
of their enterprise ; that the nobles, without union or resources,
were strong only in the fear of their imaginary strength ; that all
power, as well as right, was in the hands of the people ; that the
mes of the apostolic chamber might relieve the public dis-
tress; and that the Pope himself would approve their victory

GIBBON.] RIENZI. 1 1

over the common enemies of government and freedom. After
securing a faithful band to protect his first declaration, he pro-
claimed through the city, by sound of trumpet, that on the even-
ing of the following day all persons should assemble without arms
before the church of St Angelo, to provide for the re-establishment
of the good estate. The whole night was employed in the cele-
bration of thirty masses of the Holy Ghost ; and in the morning,
Rienzi, bareheaded, but in complete armour, issued from the
church, encompassed by the hundred conspirators. The Pope's
vicar, the simple Bishop of Orvieto, who had been persuaded to
sustain a part in this singular ceremony, marched on his right
hand j and three great standards were borne aloft as the emblems
of their design. In the first, the banner of liberty, Rome was
seated on two lions, with a palm in one hand and a globe in the
other ; St Paul, with a drawn sword, was delineated in the banner
of justice; and in the third, St Peter held the keys of concord and
peace. Rienzi was encouraged by the presence and applause of
an innumerable crowd, who understood little and hoped much ;
and the procession slowly rolled forward from the Castle of St
Angelo to the Capitol. His triumph was disturbed by some
secret emotion which he laboured to suppress ; he ascended
without opposition, and with seeming confidence, the citadel of
the republic ; harangued the people from the balcony ; and re-
ceived the most flattering confirmation of his acts and laws. The
nobles, as if destitute of arms and counsels, beheld in silent con-
sternation this strange revolution ; and the moment had been
prudently chosen, when the most formidable, Stephen Colonna,
was absent from the city. On the first rumour he returned to his
palace, affected to despise this plebeian tumult, and declared to
the messenger of Rienzi, that at his leisure he would cast the
madman from the windows of the Capitol. The great bell in-
stantly rung an alarm, and so rapid was the tide, so urgent was
the danger, that Colonna escaped with precipitation to the suburb
of St Lawrence ; from thence, after a moment's refreshment, he
continued the same speedy career till he reached in safety his
castle of Palestrinaj lamenting his own imprudence, which had

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON,

not trampled the spark of this mighty conflagration. A general
and peremptory order was issued from the Capitol to all the
nobles, that they should retire to their estates ; they obeyed ; and
their departure secured the tranquillity o£ the free and obedient
citi/ens of Rome.

But such voluntary obedience evaporates with the first trans-
ports of zeal ; and Rienzi felt the importance of justifying his
•ation by a regular form and a legal title. At his own choice
the Roman people would have displayed their attachment and
authority, by lavishing on his head the names of senator or con-
sul, of king or emperor; he preferred the ancient and modest
appellation of tribune. The protection of the commons was the
essence of that sacred office ; and they were ignorant that it had
never been invested with any share in the legislative or executive
powers of the republic. In this character, and with the consent
of the Romans, the tribune enacted the most salutary laws for
the restoration and maintenance of the good estate. By the first
he fulfils the wish of honesty and inexperience, that no civil suit
should be protracted beyond the term of fifteen days. The
danger of frequent perjury might justify the pronouncing against
a false accuser the same penalty which his evidence would have
inflicted ; the disorder of the times might compel the legislature
to punish every homicide with death, and every injury with equal
retaliation. But the execution of justice was hopeless till he had
previously abolished the tyranny of the nobles. It was formally
provided, that none, except the supreme magistrate, should pos-
sess or command the gates, bridges, or towers of the state ; that
no private garrisons should be introduced into the towns or castles
of the Roman territory ; that none should bear arms, or presume
to fortify their houses in the city or country; that the barons
should be responsible for the safety of the highways, and the free
passage of provisions ; and that the protection of malefactors and
robbers should be expiated by a fine of a thousand marks of silver.
But these regulations would have been impotent and nugatory,
had not the licentious nobles been awed by the sword of the civil
power. A sudden alarm from the bell of the Capitol could still

GIBBON.] RIENZI.. 13

summon to the standard above twenty thousand volunteers ; the
support of the tribune and the laws required a more regular and
permanent force. In each harbour of the coast, a vessel was
stationed for the assurance of commerce ; a standing militia of
three hundred and sixty horse and thirteen hundred foot was
levied, clothed, and paid in the thirteen quarters of the city ; and
the spirit of a commonwealth may be traced in the grateful allow-
ance of one hundred florins, or pounds, to the heirs of every
soldier who lost his life in the service of his country. For the
maintenance of the public defence, for the establishment of gran-
aries, for the relief of widows, orphans, and indigent convents,
Rienzi applied, without fear of sacrilege, the revenues of the apo-
stolic chamber ; the three branches of hearth-money, the salt
duty, and the customs, were each of the annual produce of one
hundred thousand florins : and scandalous were the abuses if in
four or five months the amount of the salt duty could be trebled
by his iudicious economy. After thus restoring the forces and
finances of the republic, the tribune recalled the nobles from their
solitary independence ; required their personal appearance in the
Capitol ; and imposed an oath of allegiance to the new govern-
ment, and of submission to the laws of the good estate. Appre-
hensive for their safety, but still more apprehensive of the danger
of a refusal, the princes and barons returned to their houses at
Rome in the garb of simple and peaceful citizens. ... It was
the boast of Rienzi, that he had delivered the throne and patri-
mony of St Peter from a rebellious aristocracy ; and Clement the
Sixth, who rejoiced in its fall, affected to believe the professions,
to applaud the merits, and to confirm the title, of his trusty ser-
vant. The speech, perhaps the mind, of the tribune, was inspired
with a lively regard for the purity of the faith : he insinuated his
claim to a supernatural mission from the Holy Ghost, enforced
by a heavy forfeiture the annual duty of confession and com-
munion; and strictly guarded the spiritual as well as temporal
welfare of his faithful people.

Never perhaps has the energy and effect of a single mind been
more remarkably felt than in the sudden, though transient, refor-

,4 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON.

mation of Rome by the tribune Rienzi. A den of robbers was
converted to the discipline of a camp or convent : patient to
hear, swift to redress, inexorable to punish, his tribunal was
always accessible to the poor and stranger ; nor could birth, or
dignity, or the immunities of the church, protect the offender or
ccomplices. The privileged houses, the private sanctuaries
in Rome, on which no officer of justice would presume to trespass,
were abolished ; and he applied the timber and iron of their bar-
ricades in the fortifications of the Capitol. The venerable father
of the Colonna was exposed in his own palace to the double
shame of being desirous, and of being unable, to protect a crimi-
nal. A mule, with a jar of oil, had been stolen near Capranica ;
and the lord of the Ursini family was condemned to restore the
damage, and to discharge a fine of four hundred florins for his neg-
ligence in guarding the highways. Nor were the persons of the
barons more inviolate than their lands or houses; and, either
from accident or design, the same impartial rigour was exercised
against the heads of the adverse factions. Peter Agapet Colonna,
who had himself been senator of Rome, was arrested in the street
for injury or debt ; and justice was appeased by the tardy execu-
tion of Martin Ursini, who, among his various acts of violence
and rapine, had pillaged a shipwrecked vessel at the mouth of
the Tiber. His name, the purple of two cardinals, his uncles, a
recent marriage, and a mortal disease, were disregarded by the
inflexible tribune, who had chosen his victim. The public officers
dragged him from his palace and nuptial bed ; his trial was short
and satisfactory : the bell of the Capitol convened the people :
stripped of his mantle, on his knees, with his hands bound behind
his back, he heard the sentence of death ; and after a brief con-
fession, Ursini was led away to the gallows. After such an ex-
ample, none who were conscious of guilt could hope for impunity,
and the flight of the wicked, the licentious, and the idle, soon
purified the city and territory of Rome. In this time, (says the
historian,) the woods began to rejoice that they were no longer
sled with robbers ; the oxen began to plough ; the pilgrims
yisilcd the sanctuaries ; the roads and inns were replenished with

GIBBON.] RIENZI. 1 5

travellers; trade, plenty, and good faith, were restored in the
markets ; and a purse of gold might be exposed without danger
in the midst of the highway. As soon as the life and property
of the subject are secure, the labours and rewards of industry
spontaneously revive : Rome was still the metropolis of the Chris-
tian world ; and the fame and fortunes of the tribune were diffused
in every country by the strangers who had enjoyed the blessings
of his government.

The deliverance of his country inspired Rienzi with a vast, and
perhaps visionary, idea of uniting Italy in a great federative
republic, of which Rome should be the ancient and lawful head,
and the free cities and princes the members and associates. His
pen was not less eloquent than his tongue ; and his numerous
epistles were delivered to swift and trusty messengers. On foot,
with a white wand in their hand, they traversed the forest and
mountains ; enjoyed, in the most hostile states, the sacred secu-
rity of ambassadors ; and reported, in the style of flattery or truth,
that the highways along their passage were lined with multitudes,
who implored Heaven for the success of their undertaking.

Beyond the Alps, more especially at Avignon, the revolution
was the theme of curiosity, wonder, and applause. Petrarch had
been the private friend, perhaps the secret counsellor, of Rienzi :
his writings breathe the most ardent spirit of patriotism and joy;
and all respect for the Pope, all gratitude for the Colonna, was
lost in the superior duties of a Roman citizen. The poet laureate
of the Capitol maintains the act, applauds the hero, and mingles
with some apprehension and advice the most lofty hopes of the
permanent greatness of the republic.

While Petrarch indulged these prophetic visions, the Roman
hero was fast declining from the meridian of fame and power ;
and the people, who had gazed with astonishment on the ascend-
ing meteor, began to mark the irregularity of its course, and the
vicissitudes of light and obscurity. More eloquent than judicious,
more enterprising than resolute, the faculties of Rienzi were not
balanced by cool and commanding reason : he magnified in a
tenfold proportion tfcg objects of hope and fear; and prudence,

,6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON.

which could not have erected, did not presume to fortify, his
throne. In the blaze of prosperity his virtues were insensibly
tinctured with the adjacent vices , justice with cruelty, liberality
with profusion, and the desire of fame with puerile and ostenta-
tious vanity- He might have learned, th&t the ancient tribunes,
so strong and sacred in the public opinion, were not distinguishes
in style, habit, or appearance, from an ordinary plebeian ; and
that, as often as they visited the city on foot, a single viator, or
beadle, attended the exercise of their office. The Gracchi would
have frowned or smiled, could they have read the sonorous titles
and epithets of their successor, " Nicholas, severe and merciful;
rer of Rome; defender of Italy ; friend of mankind, and of
liberty, peace, and justice ; tribune august : " his theatrical pageants
had prepared the revolution ; but Rienzi abused, in luxury and
pride, the political maxim of speaking to the eyes, as well as the
understanding, of the multitude. From nature he had received
the gift of a handsome person, till it was swelled and disfigured
by intemperance ; and his propensity to laughter was corrected
in the magistrate by the affectation of gravity and sternness. He
was clothed, at least on public occasions, in a party-coloured robe
of velvet or satin, lined with fur, and embroidered with gold: the
rod of justice, which he carried in his hand, was a sceptre of
polished steel, crowned with a globe and cross of gold, and
enclosing a small fragment of the true and holy wood. In his
civil and religious processions through the city, he rode on a white
steed, the symbol of royalty : the great banner of the republic, a
sun with a circle of stars, a dove with an olive branch, was
displayed over his head ; a shower of gold and silver was scattered
among the populace ; fifty guards with halberts encompassed his
person ; a troop of horse preceded his march ; and their cymbals
and trumpets were of massy silver.

The ambition of the honours of chivalry betrayed the mean-
ness of his birth, and degraded the importance of his office ; and
the equestrian tribune was not less odious to the nobles, whom
he adopted, than to the plebeians, whom he deserted. All that
yet remained of treasure, or luxury, or art, was exhausted on that

GIBBON.] RIENZI. 17

solemn day. Rienzi led the procession from the Capitol to the
Lateran ; the tediousness of the way was relieved with decorations
and games ; the ecclesiastical, civil, and military orders marched
under their various banners ; the Roman ladies attended his wife ;
and the ambassadors of Italy might loudly applaud, or secretly
deride, the novelty of the pomp. In the evening, when they had
reached the church and palace of Constantine, he thanked and
dismissed the numerous assembly, with an invitation to the fes-
tival of the ensuing day. From the hands of a venerable knight
he received the order of the Holy Ghost ; the purification of the
bath was a previous ceremony ; but in no step of his life did
Rienzi excite such scandal and censure as by the profane use of
the porphyry vase, in which Constantine (a foolish legend) had
been healed of his leprosy by Pope Sylvester. With equal pre-
sumption the tribune watched or reposed within the consecrated
precincts of the baptistry ; and the failure of his state bed was
interpreted as an omen of his approaching downfall. At the hour
of worship he showed himself to the returning crowds in a
majestic attitude, with a robe ot purple, his sword, and gilt
spurs ; but the holy rites were soon interrupted by his levity and
insolence. Rising from his throne, and advancing towards the
congregation, he proclaimed in a loud voice r " We summon to
our tribunal Pope Clement ; and command him to reside in his
diocese of Rome : we also summon the sacred college of cardinals.
We again summon the two pretenders, Charles of Bohemia, and
Lewis of Bavaria, who style themselves emperors : we likewise
summon all the electors of Germany, to inform us on what pre-
tence they have usurped the unalienable right of the Roman
people, the ancient and lawful sovereigns of the empire." Un-
sheathing his maiden sword, he thrice brandished it to the three
parts of the world, and thrice repeated the extravagant declara-
tion, " And this too is mine ! " The Pope's vicar, the Bishop of
Orvieto, attempted to check this career of folly ; but his feeble
protest was silenced by martial music ; and instead of withdrawing
from the assembly, he consented to dine with his brother tribune,
at a table which had hitherto been reserved for the supreme

VOL. III. B

1 8 - HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON.

pontiff. A banquet, such as the Caesars had given, was prepared
for the Romans. The apartments, porticoes, and the courts of
the Lateran were spread with innumerable tables for either sex,
and every condition ; a stream of wine flowed from the nostrils
of Constantine's brazen horse ; no complaint, except the scarcity
of water, could be heard ; and the licentiousness of the multitude
was curbed by discipline and fear. A subsequent day was
appointed for the coronation of Rienzi ; seven crowns of different
leaves or metals were successively placed on his head by the
most eminent of the Roman clergy ; they represented the seven
gifts of the Holy Ghost ; and he still professed to imitate the
example of the ancient tribunes. These extraordinary spectacles
might deceive or flatter the people ; and their own vanity was
gratified in the vanity of their leader. But in his private life he
soon deviated from the strict rule of frugality and abstinence ; and
the plebeians, who were awed by the splendour of the nobles,
were provoked by the luxury of their equal. His wife, his son,
his uncle, (a barber in name and profession,) exposed the contrast
of vulgar manners and princely expense : and, without acquiring
the majesty, Rienzi degenerated into the vices, of a king.

A simple citizen describes with pity, or perhaps with pleasure,
the humiliation of the barons of Rome: — "Bareheaded, their
hands crossed on their breast, they stood with downcast looks in
the presence of the tribune ; and they trembled, good God, how
they trembled ! " As long as the yoke of Rienzi was that of
justice and their country, their conscience forced them to esteem
the man, whom pride and interest provoked them to hate : his
extravagant conduct soon fortified their hatred by contempt ; and
they conceived the hope of subverting a power which was no
longer so deeply rooted in the public confidence. The old
animosity of the Colonna and Ursini was suspended for a moment
by their common disgrace: they associated their wishes, and
perhaps their designs; an assassin was seized and tortured; he
accused the nobles ; and as soon as Rienzi deserved the fate, he
adopted the suspicions and maxims of a tyrant. On the same
clay, under various pretences, he invited to the Capitol his prin-

GIBBON.] RIENZL I Q

cipal enemies, among whom were five members of the Ursini and
three of the Colonna name. But instead of a council or a
banquet, they found themselves prisoners under the sword of
despotism or justice ; and the consciousness of innocence or
guilt might inspire them with equal apprehensions of danger. At
the sound of the great bell the people assembled ; they were
arraigned for a conspiracy against the tribune's life ; and though
some might sympathise in their distress, not a hand, nor a voice,
was raised to rescue the first of the nobility from their impending
doom. Their apparent boldness was prompted by despair ; they
passed in separate chambers a sleepless and painful night ; and
the venerable hero, Stephen Colonna, striking against the door of
his prison, repeatedly urged his guards to deliver him by a speedy
death from such ignominious servitude. In the morning they
understood their sentence from the visit of a confessor and the
tolling of the bell. The great hall of the Capitol had been deco-
rated for the bloody scene with red and white hangings : the
countenance of the tribune was dark and severe ; the swords
of the executioners were unsheathed ; and the barons were in-
terrupted in their dying speeches by the sound of trumpets.
But in this decisive moment, Rienzi was not less anxious or
apprehensive than his captives . he dreaded the splendour of
their names, their surviving kinsmen, the inconstancy of the
people, the reproaches of the world, and, after rashly offering a
mortal injury, he vainly presumed that, if he could forgive, he
might himself be forgiven. His elaborate oration was that of a
Christian and a suppliant ; and, as the humble minister of the
commons, he entreated his masters to pardon these noble cri-
minals, for whose repentance and future service he pledged his
faith and authority. " If you are spared," said the tribune, " by
the mercy of the Romans, will you not promise to support' the
good estate with your lives and fortunes 1 " Astonished by this
marvellous clemency, the barons bowed their heads , and, while
they devoutly repeated the oath of allegiance, might whisper
secret, and more sincere, assurance of revenge. A priest, in the
name of the people, pronounced their absolution : they received the

2O ^ALP-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIBBON.

communion with the tribune, assisted at the banquet, followed the
procession ; and, after every spiritual and temporal sign of recon-
ciliation, were dismissed in safety to their respective homes, with
the new honours and titles of generals, consuls, and patricians.

.ring some weeks they were checked by the memory of their
clanger, rather than of their deliverance, till the most powerful of
the Ursini, escaping with Colonna from the city, erected at
Marino the standard of rebellion. The fortifications of the castle

instantly restored , the vassals attended their lord ; the out-
laws armed against the magistrate; the flocks and herds, the
harvests and vineyards, from Marino to the gates of Rome, were
swept away and destroyed ; and the people arraigned Rienzi as
the author of the calamities which his government had taught
them to forget. In the camp, Rienzi appeared to less advantage
than in the rostrum ; and he neglected the progress of the rebel
barons till their numbers were strong, and their castles impreg-
nable. From the pages of Livy he had not imbibed the art, or
even the courage, of a general: an army of twenty thousand
Romans returned without honour or effect from the attack of
Marino ; and his vengeance was amused by painting his enemies
their heads downwards, and drowning two dogs (at least they
should have been bears) as the representatives of the Ursini.
The belief of his incapacity encouraged their operations ; they
were invited by their secret adherents : and the barons attempted,
with four thousand foot and sixteen hundred horse, to enter Rome
by force or surprise. The city was prepared for their reception :
the alarm-bell rung all night : the gates were strictly guarded, or
insolently open; and after some hesitation they sounded a
retreat. The two first divisions had passed along the walls, but
the prospect of a free entrance tempted the headstrong valour of
the nobles in the rear ; and after a successful skirmish, they were
overthrown and massacred without quarter by the crowds of the
Roman people. Stephen Colonna the younger, the noble spirit

.0111 Petrarch ascribed the restoration of Italy, was preceded
or accompanied in death by his son John, a gallant youth, by his
brother Peter, who might regret the ease and honours of the

GIBBON.] RIENZI. 2 1

church, by a nephew of legitimate birth, and by two bastards of
the Colonna race ; and the number of seven, the seven crowns,
as Rienzi styled them, of the Holy Ghost, was completed by the
agony of the deplorable parent, of the veteran chief, who had
survived the hope and fortune of his house. The visions and
prophecies of St Martin and Pope Boniface had been used by
the tribune to animate his troops : he displayed, at least in the
pursuit, the spirit of a hero ; but he forgot the maxims of the
ancient Romans, who abhorred the triumphs of civil war. The
conqueror ascended the Capitol j deposited his crown and sceptre
on the altar ; and boasted, with some truth, that he had cut off
an ear which neither pope nor emperor had been able to ampu-
tate. His base and implacable revenge denied the honours of
burial ; and the bodies of the Colonna, which he threatened to
expose with those of the vilest malefactors, were secretly interred
by the holy virgins of their name and family. The people sympa-
thised in their grief, repented of their own fury, and detested the
indecent joy of Rienzi, who visited the spot where these illustrious
victims had fallen. It was on that fatal spot that he conferred
on his son the honour of knighthood ; and the ceremony was
accomplished by a slight blow from each of the horsemen of the
guard, and by a ridiculous and inhuman ablution from a pool,
which was yet polluted with patrician blood.

A short delay would have saved the Colonna, the delay of a
single month, which elapsed between the triumph and the exile
of Rienzi. In the pride of victory, he forfeited what yet remained
of his civil virtues, without acquiring the fame of military prowess.
A free and vigorous opposition was formed in the city; and when
the tribune proposed in the public council to impose a new tax;
and to regulate the government of Perugia, thirty-nine members
voted against his measures ; repelled the injurious charge of
treachery and corruption; and urged him to prove, by their
forcible exclusion, that, if the populace adhered to his cause, it
was already disclaimed by the most respectable citizens. The
Pope and the sacred college had never been dazzled by his spe-
cious professions ; they were justly offended by the insolence of

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COWPER.

his conduct ; a cardinal legate was sent to Italy, and after some
fruitless treaty, and two personal interviews, he fulminated a bull
of excommunication, in which the tribune is degraded from his
office, and branded with the guilt of rebellion, sacrilege, and
heresy. The surviving barons of Rome were now humbled to a
sense of allegiance ; their interest and revenge engaged them in
the service of the church ; but as the fate of the Colonna was be-
fore their eyes, they abandoned to a private adventurer the peril
and glory of the revolution. John Pepin, Count of Minorbino,
in the kingdom of Naples, had been condemned for his crimes,
or his riches, to perpetual imprisonment ; and Petrarch, by soli-
citing his release, indirectly contributed to the ruin of his friend.
At the head of one hundred and fifty soldiers, the Count of
Minorbino introduced himself into Rome ; barricaded the quarter
of the Colonna ; and found the enterprise as easy as it had seemed
impossible. From the first alarm, the bell of the Capitol inces-
santly tolled ; — but, instead of repairing to the well-known sound,
the people were silent and inactive ; and the pusillanimous Rienzi,
deploring their ingratitude with sighs and tears, abdicated the
government and palace of the republic.

185.— ©it % gcmpt jaf fy* IWIjer's |)«tert.

COWPER.

[SouTHEY has emphatically described Cowper as "the most popular poet
of his generation, and the best of English letter writers." When we are fami-
liar with the strong sense, the earnest piety, the ardent love of nature, the
home affections, and the playful humour which characterise both his poetry
and his prose, it is painful to know that such a mind was habitually clouded
•with the deepest gloom, and that occasional1 insanity was the fearful lot of this
gifted being. The events of Cowper's life cannot be understood without much
explanatory narrative. We may therefore content ourselves with saying that
he was born in 1731, his father being the rector of Great Berkhampstead, and
that he died in 1800.]

O THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

COWPER.] ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. 23

Those lips are thine — thine own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it !) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

0 welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

1 will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own ;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting words shall pass my lips no more !
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COWPER.

And disappointed still, was still deceived ;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child,
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learn 'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession ! But the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes j
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may j
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

j COWPER.] ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. 25

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and

smile.)

Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ?
I would not trust my heart ; the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. —
But no — what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ;
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd, —
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet, oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ;

26 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

But higher far my proud pretensions rise, —
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.

And now, farewell ! — Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine ;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft, —
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

186.— Cjp f afo of f rices.

CHALMERS.

[THE Rev. Thomas Chalmers, D.D., was one of the most eloquent, pious,
and philosophical divines of the Scottish Church. He was born about
1 780, and received his education at the University of Saint Andrews. As a
preacher, few men ever attained such unbounded popularity. He died at
Edinburgh, on May 30, 1847. The range of Dr Chalmers's knowledge was
very various ; but perhaps the most original of his views are those connected
with what may be termed the morals of political economy.]

The first thing to be attended to is the way in which the price
of any article brought to market is affected by the variations of
its supply on the one hand, and of the demand for it on the
other. The holders of sugar, for example, after having reserved
what they need for their own use, bring the whole surplus to
market, where they dispose of it in return for those other things
which they do need. It must be quite obvious, that if there be
more of this sugar exposed than there is a demand for, the great
force of the competition will be among the sellers, to get it oft
their hands. Each will try to outstrip the others, by holding out
a greater inducement for purchasers to buy from him — and this
he can only do by holding it out to them on cheaper terms. It

CHALMERS.] THE LAW OF PRICES. 2J

is thus that each tries to undersell the rest — or, in other words,
the great supply of any article of exchange is always sure to bring
down the price of it.

On the other hand, let the same article have been sparingly
brought into the market, insomuch that, among the buyers, there
is a demand for it to a greater extent than it is to be had. The
force of the competition now changes place. It is among the
purchasers, instead of the sellers. Each will try to outstrip his
neighbours, by holding out a larger inducement to the holders of
a commodity now rare, and, therefore, in more urgent request
than usual. This he can only do by offering a greater price for
it. It is thus that each tries to overbid the other — or, in other
words, the small supply of any article of exchange is always sure
to bring up the price of it.

The price, then, of a commodity falls with the increase of the
supply, and rises with the diminution of it ; a law of political
economy which is expressed still more shortly thus — that the
price of every article of commerce is inversely in proportion to its
supply.

But it is conceivable that there might be no variation whatever
in the supply — that, from one week to another, the same quantity
of sugar, or com, or any other commodity, may be brought to
market, and yet, for all this, may there be a great weekly varia-
tion in the price of them. The truth is, that not only may the
holders of an article have not always the same quantity on hand
for sale, but the buyers may not always have the same need of it.
There may be a fluctuation in the demand for an article, as well
as in the supply of it ; and it is quite evident that the price just
rises and falls with the demand, instead of rising and falling
inversely to it. Hence the more extended aphorism in political
economy, that the price of any commodity is directly in propor-
tion to the demand, and inversely in proportion to the supply —
a doctrine that is somewhat more loosely and generally expressed
by saying that the price of an article depends upon the propor-
tion which the demand and the supply bear to each other.

There is nought in the interposition of money to affect this

2g HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

process. Its office is" merely to facilitate the exchange of com-
modities. But the proportion of their quantities in the exchange
is just the same, when made to pass through such an intermedium,
as when brought closely and directly into Barter. The vendors
of so much corn may, with the price of it, buy so much sugar. It
is not convenient to bring both these articles, or perhaps either
of them, in bulk and body, to the scene of the negotiation ; and
so the money that is received for the one is given for the other.
This, however, does not affect the proportion between the num-
ber of quarters of the one commodity, which, in the then state of
the market, is held as equivalent to the number of hundredweights
of the other commodity. This depends on the two elements of
demand and supply alone ; and is the same as if the expedient of
money for carrying into effect the contracts of merchandise had
never been devised.

The mere intervention, then, of money, will not perplex the
reader out of a right estimation upon this subject. He has only
to remember, that either by adding to the supply of any article,
or lessening the demand for it, the price of it is diminished ; and
that either by lessening the supply, or adding to the demand, the
price of it is increased.

Now there are certain articles, that, in this respect, are far
more tremulous than others, or that more readily vibrate in price,
and with a much wider range too of fluctuation. „ All are aware
of the fluctuations of the corn market ; and how, in consequence,
the heat, and often the frenzy, of deep and desperate adventure,
are associated with the temptations and the losses of such a trade.
The truth is, that, generally speaking, the necessaries of life are
far more powerfully affected in the price of them by a variation in
their quantity, than are the luxuries of life. Let the crop of grain
be deficient by one-third in its usual amount, or rather, let the
supply of grain in the market, whether from the home produce or
by importation, be curtailed to the same extent, — and this will
create a much greater addition than of one-third to the price of
it. It is not an unlikely prediction, that its cost would be more
than doubled by the shortcoming of one-third or one-fourth in

CHALMERS.] THE LAW OF PRICES. 2$

the supply. Not so with an article of luxury, and more especially
if something else can be purchased for it in the way of substitu-
tion. For example, let such be the failure of West India produce,
in any particular year, that rum is deficient by one-third from its
usual supply. There will be a consequent rise in the price of it,
but nothing at all like the rise which an equal deficiency would
create in the price of grain.

Such is the fact ; and there can be no difficulty in apprehend-
ing the cause of it. Men can more easily suffer the deprivation
or the diminution of a luxury ; and, when its price offers to rise
extravagantly, they can limit their demand for it. I can commute
the use of rum for the use of another and a cheaper substitute ;
or, failing this, I can restrain my consumption, or abandon it
altogether. Its scarcity will enhance its cost on the one hand ;
and this, on the other hand, can be met or counteracted, to any
extent, by a slackening of the demand. The point of equilibrium
between the sellers and the buyers of rum will be shifted, and its
price will become higher than before, but not so high as it would
have been had rum been an indispensable of human comfort, and
therefore given all the more of urgency to the applications of
purchasers. This is not the case with rum ; but it is so with
grain. The mass of our families could not, without distress or
great inconvenience, limit their use of it to two-thirds of their
wonted consumption. Each will press forward to obtain a larger
share of the general stock than his neighbour ; and it is just this
earnest competition among the buyers that raises the price of
necessaries greatly beyond the proportion by which the supply of
them is deficient. Men can live without luxuries ; and will be
content to put up with a smaller allowance of them for a season,
rather than pay that price to which they would be elevated by a
demand as intense as all must have for the necessaries of exist-
ence. Men cannot live without necessaries, and will not be so
content to put up with a reduced allowance of them, as they
would of the mere comforts or expensive gratifications of luxury.
It is thus that the same proportional lack in each class of commo-
dities gives rise to such a difference of effect in augmenting the

*o HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

price of each of them ; and it is just the more earnest demand, in
the one case than in the other, that explains the difference.

failure in the general supply of esculents to the extent of one-
half would more than quadruple the price pf the first necessaries
of life, and would fall with very aggravated pressure on the lower
orders. A failure to the same extent in all the vineyards of the
world would most assuredly not raise the price of wine to any-
thing near this proportion. Rather than pay four times the wonted
price for Burgundy, there would be a general descent, on the part
of its consumers in high life, to claret, or from that to port, or
from that to the home-made wines of our own country, or from
that to its spirituous, or from that to its fermented liquors. And
the facility of thus substituting one indulgence for another, is not
the only refuge against an enormous charge upon those articles.
There is also the facility of limiting the amount of the indulgence.
or of withdrawing from it altogether — a refuge that is not so open
to the population under a famine of the first necessaries of exist-
ence. There is much of shifting and of substitution certainly
among families when such a calamity visits them — as from animal
to vegetable food, from flour to meal, from meal to potatoes. But,
on the supposition of a general shortcoming in the yearly produce
of the land, the price of each of these articles rises successively
with the run of purchasers towards them. On the one hand, the
eagerness of demand after all the varieties of food will enhance
the price of all, and greatly beyond the proportion of the defici-
ency in the supply of them ; and, on the other hand, this enhanced
price is necessary so to restrain the consumption of the families
as to make the deficient stock of provisions stand out till the
coming of the next harvest. It is thus, by the way, that a popu-
lation survive so well those years of famine, when the prices, per-
haps, are tripled. This does not argue, as is obvious from the
explanations which we have now given, that they must therefore
be three times worse fed than usual. The food of the country
may only, for aught we know, have been lessened by a fourth part
of its usual supply ; or, in other words, the families may, at an
average be served with three-fourths of their usual subsistence, at

CHALMERS.] THE LA W OF PRICES. 3 !

the very time that the cost of it is three times greater than usual.
And, to make out this larger payment, they have just for a year to
retrench in other articles — altogether, it is likely, to give up the
use of comforts, and to limit themselves more largely in the second
than they can possibly do in the first necessaries of life — to forego,
perhaps, many of the little seasonings wherewith they were wont
to impart a relish to their coarse and humble fare, to husband
more strictly their fuel, and be satisfied for a while with vestments
more threadbare, and even more tattered, than what, in better
times, they would choose to appear in. It is thus that, even
although the first necessaries of life should be tripled in price for
a season, and although the pecuniary income of the labouring
classes should not at all be increased, yet they are found to weather
the hardships of such a visitation. The food is still served out to
them in a much larger proportion than the cost of it would, in the
first instance, appear to indicate. And in the second instance
they are enabled to purchase at this cost; because, and more
especially if they be a well-habited and a well-conditioned pea-
santry, with a pretty high standard of enjoyment in ordinary years,
they have the more that they can save and retrench upon in a
year of severe scarcity. They can disengage much of that revenue
which before went to the purchased dress, and of various luxu-
ries that might, for a season, be dispensed with — and so have the
more to expend on the materials of subsistence. It is this which
explains how roughly a population can bear to be handled, both by
adverse seasons and by the vicissitudes of trade — and how, after
all, there is a stability about a people's means which will keep its
ground against many shocks, and against many fluctuations. It
is a mystery and a marvel to many an observer, how the seem-
ingly frail and precarious interest of the labouring classes should,
after all, have the stamina of such endurance, as to weather the
most fearful reverses both of commerce and of the seasons j and
that, somehow or other, you find, after an interval of gloomy suf-
fering and still gloomier fears, that the families do emerge again
into the same state of sufficiency as before. We know not a fitter
study for the philanthropist than the workings of that mechanism

32 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Sm T. OVERBURY.

by which a process so gratifying is caused, or in which he will find
greater reason to admire the exquisite skill of those various adap-
tions, that must be referred to the providence of Him who framed
society, and suited so wisely to each other the elements whereof
it is composed

187.—

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.

[SiR THOMAS OVERBURY has been described as "one of the most accom-
plished gentlemen about the Court of James the First." He was poisoned in
the Tower, as is well known to every reader of English history. This horrible
event, brought about by a woman as wicked as she was beautiful, the Countess
of Essex, took place in 1613. His Miscellaneous Works are comprised in a
little volume, which has often been reprinted ; and of that volume his " Char-
acters, or Witty Descriptions of the Properties of Sundry Persons," forms the
greatest portion. The extracts which we give are amongst those characters
which are most universal in their application.]

A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID

Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful
by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face-physic out
of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to
commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellences
stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her
knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far
better than outsides of tissue ; for, though she be not arrayed in
the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocence, a far better
wearing. She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her
complexion and conditions : nature hath taught her, too, immo-
derate sleep is rust to the soul ; she rises therefore with Chantic-
leer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew.
In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it
seems that so sweet a milk -press makes the milk whiter or
sweeter; for never came almond-glore or aromatic ointment on
her palm to taint it The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her

SIR T. OVERBURY.] CHARACTERS. 33

feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led
prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her
own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new-made hay-
cock. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft
with pity; and when winter evenings fall early, sitting at her
merry wheel, she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune.
She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will
not suffer her to do ill, seeing her mind is to do well. She bestows
her year's wages at the next fair, and in choosing her garments
counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and
beehive are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer
for it. She dares go alone, and unfold sheep in the night, and
fears no manner of ill, because she means none ; yet, to say truth,
she is never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, honest
thoughts, and prayers, but short ones ; yet they have their
efficacy in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations.
Lastly, her dreams are so chaste that she dare tell them ; only a
Friday's dream is all her superstition ; that she conceals for fear
of anger. Thus lives she ; and all her care is that she may die in
the spring-time, to have stores of flowers stuck upon her wind-
ing-sheet.

A NOBLE SPIRIT

Hath surveyed and fortified his disposition, and converts all
occurrences into experience, between which experience and his
reason there is marriage, the issue are his actions. He circuits
his intents, and seeth the end before he shoots. Men are the
instruments of his art, and there is no man without his use ;
occasion incites him, none exciteth him, and he moves by affec-
tion, not for affection ; he loves glory, scorns shame, and gover-
neth and obeyeth with one countenance, for it comes from one
consideration. He calls not the variety of the world chances,
for his meditation hath travelled over them, and his eyes, mounted
upon his understanding, seeth them as things underneath. He
covers not his body with delicacies, nor excuseth these delicacies
by his body, but teacheth it, since it is not able to defend its own
imbecility, to show or suffer. He licenseth not his weakness to
VOL. in. c

34 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SiR T. OVERBURY.

r fate, but, knowing reason to be no idle gift of nature, he is
the steersman of his own destiny. Truth is his goddess, and he
MS to get her, not to look like her; he knows the con-
dition of the world, that he must act one tfcng, like another, and
another ; to these he carries his desires, and not his desires
him, and sticks not fast by the way, (for that contentment is re-
pentance,) but knowing the circle of all courses, of all intents, of
all things, to have but one centre or period, without all distrac-
tion he hasteth thither, and ends there as his true natural element.
He doth not contemn fortune, but not confess her; he is no
gamester of the world, (which only complain and praise her,) but,
being only sensible of the honesty of actions, contemns a particu-
lar profit as the excrement or scum. Unto the society of men
he is a sun, whose clearness directs their steps in a regular notion.
When he is more particular, he is the wise man's friend, the ex-
ample of the indifferent, the medicine of the vicious. Thus time
goeth not from him, but with him, and he feels age more by the
strength of his soul than the weakness of his body. He feels no
pain, but esteems all such things as friends, that desire to file off
his fetters, and help him out of prison.

A NOBLE AND RETIRED HOUSEKEEPER

Is one whose bounty is limited by reason, not ostentation ; and,
to make it last, he deals it discreetly as we sow the furrow, not by
the sack, but by the handful. His word and his meaning never
shake hands and part, but always go together. He can survey
and love it, for he loves to do it himself, for its own sake, not for
thanks. He knows there is no such misery as to outlive a good
name, nor no such folly as to put it in practice. His mind is so
secure, that thunder rocks him to sleep, which breaks other men's
slumbers; nobility lightens in his eyes, and in his face and
gesture is painted the god of hospitality. His great houses bear
in their front more durance than state, unless this add the greater
state to them, that they promise to outlast much of our new fan-
tastical building. His heart grows old no more than his memory,
whether at his book, or on horseback ; he passes his time in such

SIR T. OVERBUKY.] CHARACTERS. ge

noble exercise ; a man cannot say any time is lost by him, nor
hath he only years to approve he hath lived till he be old, but
virtues. His thoughts have a high aim, though their dwelling be
in the vale of an humble heart, whence, as by an engine (that
raises water to fall, that it may rise higher) he is heightened in his
humility. The adamant serves not for all seas, but his doth, for
he hath, as it were, put a gird about the whole world, and sounded
all her quicksands. He hath his hand over fortune, that her in-
juries, how violent or sudden soever, do not haunt him ; for,
whether his time call him to live or die, he can do both nobly ;
if to fall, his descent with virtue, and even then, like the sun near
his set, he shows unto the world his clearest countenance.

A FRANKLIN.

His outside is an ancient yeoman of England, though his
inside may give arms (with the best gentleman) and never fee the
herald. There is no truer servant in the house than himself.
Though he be master, he says not to his servants, Go to the field,
but, Let us go ; and with his own eye doth both fatten his flock,
and set forward all manner of husbandry. He is taught by nature
to be contented with a little : his own fold yields him both food
and raiment, he is pleased with any nourishment God sends,
whilst curious gluttony ransacks, as it were, Noah's ark for food,
only to feed the riot of one meal. He is never known to go to
law; understanding to be law-bound among men is like to be
hide-bound among his beasts ; they thrive not under it, and that
such men sleep as unquietly as if their pillows were stuffed with
lawyers' pen-knives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cottage
hinders his prospect : they are, indeed, his alms-houses, though
there be painted on them no such superscription. He never sits
up late, but when he hunts the badger, the avowed foe of his
lambs ; nor uses he any cruelty, but when he hunts the hare ; nor
subtilty, but when he setteth snares for the snipe, or pitfalls for
the blackbird ; nor oppression, but when in the month of July he
goes to the next river and shears his sheep. He allows of honest
pastime, and thinks not the bones of the dead anything bruised,

-6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [BANCROFT.

or the worse for it, though the country lasses dance in the church-
yard after even-song. Rock-Monday, and the wake m summer,
shrovings the wakeful catches on Christmas-eve, the hokey, or
seed-cake, these he yearly . keeps, yet holds them no relics of
Popery. He is not so inquisitive after news derived from the
privy closet, when the finding an eyry of hawks in his own ground,
or the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are tidings more
pleasant and more profitable. He is lord paramount within him-
self, though he hold by never so mean a tenure, and dies the
more contentedly, (though he leave his heir young,) in regard he
leaves him not liable to a covetous guardian. Lastly, to end
him, he cares not when his end comes ; he needs not fear his
audit, for his quietus is in heaven.

188.— f0]m facile ani William

BANCROFT.

[GEORGE BANCROFT, who, about twenty years ago, was Minister Plenipo-
tentiary from the United States to Great Britain, was born in Massachusetts
in 1800.* The following extract is from his " History of the Colonisation of
the United States."]

Penn, despairing of relief in Europe, bent the whole energy of
his mind to accomplish the establishment of a free government
in the New World. For that " heavenly end," he was prepared
by the severe discipline of life, and the love, without dissimula-
tion, which formed the basis of his character. The sentiment of
cheerful humanity was irrepressibly strong in his bosom : as with
John Elliot and Roger Williams, benevolence gushed prodigally
from his ever-flowing heart ; and when, in his late old age, his
intellect was impaired, and his reason prostrated by apoplexy, his
sweetness of disposition rose serenely over the clouds of disease.
Possessing an extraordinary greatness of mind, vast conceptions,
remarkable for their universality and precision, and " surpassing
in speculative endowments ; " conversant with men, and books,
and governments, with various languages, and the forms of poli-

BANCROFT.] JOHN LOCKE AND WILLIAM PENN.

tical combinations, as they existed in England and France, in
Holland, and the principalities and free cities of Germany, he
yet sought the source of wisdom in his own soul. Humane by
nature and by suffering; familiar with the royal family; intimate
with Sunderland and Sidney ; acquainted with Russell, Halifax,
Shaftesbury, and Buckingham ; as a member of the Royal Society,
the peer of Newton and the great scholars of his age — he valued
the promptings of a free mind more than the awards of learning,
and reverenced the single-minded sincerity of the Nottingham
Shepherd, more than the authority of colleges and the wisdom of
philosophers. And now, being in the meridian of life, but a year
older than was Locke, when, twelve years before, he had framed
a constitution for Carolina, the Quaker legislator was come to the
New World to lay the foundations of states. Would he imitate
the vaunted system of the great philosopher? Locke, like Wil-
liam Penn, was tolerant ; both loved freedom ; both cherished
truth in sincerity. But Locke kindled the torch of liberty at the
fires of tradition — Penn at the living light in the soul. Locke
sought truth through the senses and the outward world ; Penn
looked inward to the divine revelations in every mind. Locke
compared the soul to a sheet of white paper, just as Hobbes had
compared it to a slate, on which time and chance might scrawl
their experience ; to Penn, the soul was an organ which instinc-
tively breathes divine harmonies, like those musical instruments
which are so curiously and so perfectly framed, that, when once
set in motion, they of themselves give forth all the melodies de-
signed by the artist that made them. To Locke, " Conscience
is nothing else than our own opinion of our own actions;" to
Penn, it is the image of God, and His oracle in the soul. Locke,
who never was a father, esteemed " the duty of parents to preserve
their children not to be understood without rewards and punish-
ments ; " Penn loved his children, with not a thought for the
consequences. Locke, who was never married, declares marriage
an affair of the senses ; Penn reverenced woman as the object of
fervent, inward affection, made, not for lust, but for love. In
studying the understanding, Locke begins with the sources of

jg HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BANCROFT.

knowledge ; Penn with the inventory of our intellectual treasures.
Locke deduces government from Noah and Adam, rests it upon
contract, and announces its end to be the security of property ;
Penn, far from going back to Adam, or ey^en to Noah, declares
that " there must be a people before a government," and, deduc-
ing the right to institute government from man's moral nature,
seeks its fundamental rules in the immutable dictates " of univer-
sal reason," its end in freedom and happiness. The system of
Locke lends itself to contendings of factions of most opposite
interests and purposes ; the doctrine of Fox and Penn, being but
the common creed of humanity, forbids division, and insures the
highest moral unity. To Locke, happiness is pleasure; things
are good and evil only in reference to pleasure and pain ; and to
" inquire after the highest good is as absurd as to dispute whether
the best relish be in apples, plums, or nuts;" Penn esteemed
happiness to lie in the subjection of the baser instincts to the
instinct of Deity in the breast, good and evil to be eternally and
always as unlike as truth and falsehood, and the inquiry after the
highest good to involve the purpose of existence. Locke says
plainly, that, but for rewards and punishments beyond the grave,
" it is certainly right to eat and drink, and to enjoy what we
delight in ; " Penn, like Plato and Fe'nelon, maintained the doc-
trine so terrible to despots, that God is to be loved for His own sake,
and virtue practised for its intrinsic loveliness. Locke derives
the idea of infinity from the senses, describes it as purely negative,
and attributes it to nothing but space, duration, and number;
Penn derived the idea from the soul, and ascribed it to truth,
and virtue, and God.' Locke declares immortality a matter with
which reason has nothing to do, and that revealed truth must be
sustained by outward signs and visible acts of power ; Penn saw
truth by its own light, and summoned the soul to bear witness to
its own glory. Locke believed "not so many men in wrong
opinions as is commonly supposed, because the greatest part have
no opinions at all, and do not know what they contend for ; "
Penn likewise vindicated the many, but it was truth was the com-
mon inheritance of the race. Locke, in his love of tolerance,

BROOKE.] THE LION AND THE SPANl^ '. 39

inveighed against the methods of persecution as " Popish prac-
tices ; " Penn censured no sect, but condemned bigotry of all
sorts as inhuman. Locke, as an American lawgiver, dreaded a
too numerous democracy, and reserved all power to wealth and
the feudal proprietors ; Penn believed that God is in every con-
science, His light in every soul ; and therefore, stretching out His
arms, He built — such are his own words — " a free colony for all
mankind." This is the praise of William Penn, that, in an age
which had seen a popular revolution shipwreck popular liberty
among selfish factions ; which had seen Hugh Peters and Henry
Vane perish by the hangman's cord and the axe ; in an age when
Sidney nourished the pride of patriotism rather than the sentiment
of philanthropy, when Russell stood for the liberties of his order,
and not for new enfranchisements, when Harrington and Shaftes-
bury, and Locke, thought government should rest on property, —
Penn did not despair of humanity, and, though all history and
experience denied the sovereignty of the people, dared to cherish
the noble idea of man's capacity for self-government. Conscious
that there was no room for its exercise in England, the pure
enthusiast, like Calvin and Descartes, a voluntary exile, was come
to the banks of the Delaware to institute " THE HOLY EXPERI-

189.— &\n f bit unit % Spaniel.

BROOKE.

[WE give the following extract from a strange and unequal work, little
known in our times, but containing many things worth reading, entitled " The
Fool of Quality." The author, Henry Brooke, was the son of an Irish clergy-
man, and was born in 1 706. His first poem, ' ' Universal Beauty," received
the encouragement of Pope and Swift. His tragedies of ' ' Gustavus Vasa " and
the " Earl of Essex " long kept possession of the stage. He died in 1 783.]

In the afternoon our company went again to the Tower, to see as

well as to hear the recent story of the great lion and the little dog.

They found the place thronged, and all were obliged to pay

40 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROOKE.

treble prices, on account of the unprecedented novelty of the
show ; so that the keeper, in a short space, acquired a little for-
tune.

The great cage in the front was occupied by a beast, who, by
way of pre-eminence, was called the king's lion ; and, while he
traversed the limits of his straitened dominions, he was attended
by a small and very beautiful black spaniel, who frisked and gam-
bolled about him, and at times would pretend to snarl and bite at
him ; and again the noble animal, with an air of fond complais-
ance, would hold down his head, while the little creature licked
his formidable chaps. Their history, as the keeper related, was
this :—

It was customary for all, who were unable or unwilling to pay
their sixpence, to bring a dog or cat as an oblation to the beast in
lieu of money to the keeper. Among others, a fellow had caught
up this pretty black spaniel in the streets, and he was accordingly
thrown into the cage of the great lion. Immediately the little
animal trembled and shivered, and crouched, and threw itself on
its back, and put forth its tongue, and held up its paws, in suppli-
catory attitudes, as an acknowledgment of superior power, and
praying for mercy. In the meantime, the lordly brute, instead of
devouring it, beheld it with an eye of philosophic inspection. He
turned it over with one paw, and then turned it with the other ;
and smelled to it, and seemed desirous of courting a further
acquaintance.

The keeper, on seeing this, brought a large mess of his own
family dinner ; but the lion kept aloof, and refused to eat, keeping
his eye on the dog, and inviting him as it were to be his taster.
At length, the little animal's fears being something abated, and
his appetite quickened by the smell of the victuals, he approached
slowly, and with trembling ventured to eat. The lion then ad-
vanced gently and began to partake, and they finished their meal
very lovingly together.

From this day the strictest friendship commenced between them,
a friendship consisting of all possible affection and tenderness on
the part of the lion, and of the utmost confidence and boldness

BROOKE.] THE LION AND THE SPANIEL. 41

on the part of the dog ; insomuch that he would lay himself down
to sleep, within the fangs and under the jaws of his terrible patron.
A gentleman who had lost the spaniel, and had advertised a re-
ward of two guineas to the finder, at length heard of the adven-
ture, and went to reclaim his dog. "You see, sir," said the
keeper, "it would be a great pity to part such loving friends;
however, if you insist upon your property, you must even be
pleased to take him yourself ; it is a task that I would not engage
in for five hundred guineas." The gentleman rose into great
wrath, but finally chose to acquiesce rather than have a personal
dispute with the lion.

As Mr Felton had a curiosity to see the two friends eat to-
gether, he sent for twenty pounds of beef, which was accordingly
cut in pieces, and given into the cage ; when immediately the
little brute, whose appetite happened to be eager at the time, was
desirous of making a monopoly of the whole, and putting his
paws upon the meat, and grumbling and barking, he audaciously
flew in the face of the lion. But the generous creature, instead
of being offended with his impotent companion, started back,
and seemed terrified at the fury of his attack, neither attempted
to eat a bit till his favourite had tacitly given permission.

When they were both gorged, the lion stretched and turned
himself and lay down in an evident posture for repose, but this
his sportive companion would not admit. He frisked and gam-
bolled about him, barked at him, would now scrape and tear at
his head with his claws, and again seize him by the ear and bite
and pull away ; while the noble beast appeared affected by no
other sentiment save that of pleasure.

But let us proceed to the tragic catastrophe of this extraordi-
nary story : a story still known to many, as delivered down from
father to son.

In about twelve months the little spaniel sickened and died,
and left his loving patron the most desolate of creatures. For
a time, the lion did not appear to conceive otherwise than that
his favourite was asleep. He would continue to smell to him,
arid then would stir him with his nose, and turn him over with his

42 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROOKE.

paw ; but finding that all his efforts to awake him were vain, he
would traverse his cage from end to end at a swift and uneasy
pace, then stop, and look down upon him with a fixed regard ;
and again lift his head, and open his horrible throat, and prolong
a roar, as of distant thunder, for several minutes together.

They attempted, but in vain, to convey the carcase from him ;
he watched it perpetually, and would suffer nothing to touch it.
The keeper then endeavoured to tempt him with variety of
victuals, but he turned from all that was offered with loathing.
They then put several living dogs into his cage, and these he in-
stantly tore peacemeal, but left their members on the floor. His
passion being thus enflamed, he would dart his fangs into the
boards, and pluck away large splinters, and again grapple at the
bars of his cage, and seem enraged at his restraint from tearing
the world to pieces. Again, as quite spent, he would stretch
himself by the remains of his beloved associate, and gather him
in with his paws, and put him to his bosom ; and then utter
under-roars of such terrible melancholy as seemed to threaten all
around, for the loss of his little playfellow, the only friend, the
only companion that he had.

For five days he thus languished, and gradually declined, with-
out taking any sustenance, or admitting any comfort ; till, one
morning, he was found dead, with his head lovingly reclined on
the carcase of his little friend. They were both interred together,
and their grave plentifully watered by the tears of the keeper, and
his loudly lamenting family. But to return.

When our company were on their way from the Tower to their
lodgings, "Sir," said Harry, "what we have just seen reminds me
of the opinion of my friend Peter Patience, that one who is fear-
less cannot be provoked. You saw how that little teasing petu-
lant wretch had the insolence to fly in the face of his benefactor,
without offending or exciting in him any kind of resentment."
" True, Harry, for the lion was sensible that his testy companion
was little and impotent, and depended upon him, and had
confidence in his clemency, and therefore he loved him with all
his faults. Anger, however, in some cases, is not only allowable,

BROOKE.] THE LION AND THE SPANIEL. 43

but becomes a duty. The Scriptures says, ' Be angry, but sin
not.' We ought to feel and fear for others ; and lust, violence,
and oppression of every sort, will excite the indignation of a
generous and benevolent person, though he may not fear for
himself."

After supper, Harry appeared to ruminate, and said, " How
comes it, sir, that creatures not endued with reason, shall yet, in
the affections that are peculiarly called humane, exceed even
most of the human species ? You have seen that it was the case
between the lion and the little dog."

" It was the opinion, my Harry, of an ancient philosopher, that
God was the soul and spirit of brutes ; and this he judged from
observing, that what we call instinct was incomparably wiser,
more sagacious, and more accomplishing for attaining its end,
throughout its sphere of action, than the most perfect human
reason. Now, had this philosopher, instead of saying that God
was the soul of brutes, barely alleged that He ruled and dictated
within them, he would not have gone a little wide of the truth.
God, indeed, is Himself the beauty and the benefit of all His
works. As they cannot exist but in Him and by Him, so His
impression is upon them, and His impregnation is through them.

" Though the elements, and all that we know of nature and
creation, have a mixture of natural and physical evil, God is, how-
ever, throughout, an internal though often a hidden principle of
good, and never wholly departs from His right of dominion and
operation in His creatures ; but is, and is alone, the beauty and
beneficence, the whole glory and graciousness, that can possibly
be in them.

" As the apostle says, 4 The invisible things of God are made
manifest by the things that are seen.' He is the secret and cen-
tral light that kindles up the sun, His dazzling representative ; and
He lives, enlightens, and comforts in the diffusion of His beams.

" His spirit inspires and actuates the air, and is in it a breath
of life to all His creatures. He blooms in the blossom, and un-
folds in the rose. He is fragrance in flowers, and flavour in fruits.
He holds infinitude in the hollow of His hand, and opens His

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LocKU.

world of wonders to the minims of nature. He is the virtue of
every heart that is softened by a sense of pity or touch of benevo-
lence. He coos in the turtle, and bleats in the lamb; and,
through the paps of the stern bear and implacable tigress, He
yields forth the milk of loving-kindness to their little ones. Even,
my Harry, when we hear the delicious enchantment of music, it is
but an external sketch, a distant and faint echo of those senti-
mental and rapturous tunings that rise up, throughout the immen-
sity of our God, from eternity to eternity."

190.— &Ije djfristira IJU&elatfon % Sim Sfattirarir
0f SJforalifB.

LOCKE.

[JOHN LOCKE, whose writings half a century ago were regarded as the text-
book of sound philosophy, has now passed into comparative neglect. This is
not the place to examine into the causes of this revolution of opinion, which
may be equally traced in the poetry and the theology of our own day. His
" Essay on the Human Understanding" will, however, always command at-
tention for the clearness of its style and the perspicuity of its reasoning. As a
political writer, Locke is to be admired for his consistent advocacy of freedom
and toleration, in an age when such opinions were more than unfashionable —
were absolutely dangerous. He was born in 1632 ; was employed in various
public offices under the famous Lord Shaftesbury, and shared the disgrace of
that statesman ; returned from exile at the Revolution of 1688, and was em-
ployed by the government of William III. The following extract is from his
" Reasonableness of Christianity " — an attempt to show what points of belief
were common to all Christians. He died in 1704.]

Next to the knowledge of one God, Maker of all things, a clear
knowledge of their duty was wanting to mankind. This part of
knowledge, though cultivated with some care by some of the hea-
then philosophers, yet got little footing among the people. All
men indeed, under pain of displeasing the gods, were to frequent
the temples : every one went to their sacrifices and services ; but
the priests made it not their business to teach them virtue. If
they were diligent in their observations and ceremonies, punctual

LOCKE.] THE CHRISTIAN REVELATION, ETC. 45

in their feasts and solemnities, and the tricks of religion, the holy
tribe assured them the gods were pleased ; and they looked no
further. . . We see how

unsuccessful in this the attempts of philosophers were before our
Saviour's time. How short their several systems came of the per-
fection of a true and complete morality is very visible. And if,
since that, the Christian philosophers have much outdone them,
yet we may observe, that the first knowledge of the truths they
have added are owing to revelation ; though, as soon as they are
heard and considered, they are found to be agreeable to reason,
and such as can by no means be contradicted. Every one may
observe a great many truths, which he receives at first from others,
and readily consents to as consonant to reason, which he would
have found it hard, and perhaps beyond his strength, to have dis-
covered himself. Native and original truth is not so easily
wrought out of the mine, as we who have it delivered ready dug
and fashioned into our hands, are apt to imagine. And how often
at fifty or threescore years old are thinking men told what they
wonder how they could miss thinking of! which yet their own
contemplations did not and possibly never would have helped
them to. Experience shows that the knowledge of morality, by
mere natural light, (how agreeable soever it be to it,) makes but a
slow progress and little advance in the world. And the reason of
it is not hard to be found in men's necessities, passions, vices, and
mistaken interests, which turn their thoughts another way. And
the designing leaders, as well as the following herd, find it not to
their purpose to employ much of their meditations this way. Or,
whatsoever else was the cause, it is plain in fact, human reason,
unassisted, failed men in its great and proper business of morality.
It never, from unquestionable principles, by clear deductions,
made out an entire body of the law of nature. And he that shall
collect all the moral rules of the philosophers, and compare them
with those contained in the New Testament, will find them to
come short of the morality delivered by our Saviour and taught by
His apostles : a college made up for the most part of ignorant but
inspired fishermen.

46 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LOCKE.

Though yet, if any one should think, that, out of the sayings of
the wise heathens before our Saviour's time, there might be a col-
lection made of all those rules of morality which are to be found
in the Christian religion ; yet this woukftiot at all hinder, but that
the world nevertheless stood as much in need of our Saviour, and
the morality delivered by Him. Let it be granted (though not true)
that all the moral precepts of the gospel were known by somebody
or other, amongst mankind, before. But where, or how, or of what
use, is not considered. Suppose they may be picked up here and
there ; some from Solon and Bias in Greece ; others from Tully in
Italy ; and, to complete the work, let Confucius, as far as China, be
consulted; and Anacharsis the Scythian contribute his share.
What will all this do to give the world a complete morality, that
may be to mankind the unquestionable rule of life and manners ]
I will not here urge the impossibility of collecting from men so
far distant from one another in time, and place, and languages.
I will suppose there was a Stobaeus in those times, who had
gathered the moral sayings from all the sages of the world. What
would this amount to towards being a steady rule, a certain tran-
script of a law that we are under 1 Did the sayings of Aristippus
or Confucius give it an authority ? Was Zeno a lawgiver to man-
kind ! If not, what he or any other philosopher delivered, was
but a saying of his. Mankind might hearken to it, or reject it, as
they pleased, or as it suited their interest, passions, principles, or
humours ; they were under no obligation ; the opinion of this or
that philosophy was of no authority : and if it were, you must take
all he said under the same character. All his dictates must go
for law, certain and true, or none of them. And then, if you will
take any of the moral sayings of Epicurus (many whereof Seneca
quotes with esteem and approbation) for precepts of the law of
nature, you must take all the rest of his doctrine for such too, or
else his authority ceases ; and so no more is to be received from
him, or any of the sages of old, for parts of the law of nature, as
carrying with it an obligation to be obeyed, but what they prove
to be so. But such a body of ethics, proved to be the law of
nature, from principles of reason, and reaching all the duties of

LOCKE.] THE CHRISTIAN REVELATION, ETC. 47

life, I think nobody will say the world had before our Saviour's
time. It is not enough, that there were scattered up and down
sayings of wise men conformable to right reason. The law of
nature was the law of convenience too ; and it is no wonder that
those men of parts, and studious of virtue, (who had occasion to
think on any particular part of it,) should by meditation light on
the right, even from the observable convenience and beauty of
it, without making out its obligation from the true principles of
the law of nature, and foundations of morality. But these in-
coherent apophthegms of philosophers and wise men, however
excellent in themselves, and well intended by them, could never
make a morality whereof the world could be convinced ; could
never rise to the force of a law that mankind could with certainty
depend on. Whatsoever should thus be universally useful, as a
standard to which men should conform their manners, must have
its authority either from reason or revelation. It is not every writer
of morals, or compiler of it from others, that can thereby be
erected into a lawgiver to mankind ; and a dictator of rules,
which are therefore valid because they are to be found in his
books, under the authority of this or that philosopher. He that
any one will pretend to set up in this kind, and have his rules
pass for authentic directions, must show that either he builds his
doctrines upon principles of reason, self-evident in themselves,
and that he deduces all the parts of it from thence, by clear and
evident demonstration ; or must show his commission from
heaven, that he comes with authority from God to deliver his will
and commands to the world. In the former way nobody that I
know before our Saviour's time ever did or went about to give us
a morality. It is true, there is a law of nature: but who is there
that ever did or undertook to give it us all entire, as a law ; no
more nor no less than what was contained in, and had the obli-
gation of, that law ? Who ever made out all the parts of it, put
them together, and showed the world their obligation 1 Where
was there any such code, that mankind might have recourse to as
their unerring rule, before our Saviour's time 1 If there was not,
it is plain there was need of one to give us such a morality; such

48 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LOCKE.

a law, which might be the sure guide of those who had a desire
to go right; and, if they had a mind, need not mistake their
duty ; but might be certain when they had performed, when
failed in it. Such a law of morality Jesus Christ hath given in
the New Testament ; but by the latter of these ways, by revela-
tion, we have from Him a full and sufficient rule for our direction,
and conformable to that of reason. But the truth and obligation
of its precepts have their force, and are put past doubt to us, by
the evidence of His mission. He was sent by God : His miracles
show it ; and the authority of God in His precepts cannot be
questioned. Here morality has a sure standard, that revelation
vouches, and reason cannot gainsay nor question ; but both to-
gether witness to come from God, the great Lawmaker. And
such a one as this, out of the New Testament, I think the world
never had, nor can any one say is anywhere else to be found.
Let me ask any one who is forward to think that the doctrine of
morality was full and clear in the world at our Saviour's birth —
Whither would we have directed Brutus and Cassius (both men of
parts and virtue, the one whereof believed, and the other dis-
believed, a future being) to be satisfied in the rules and obliga-
tions of all the parts of their duties, if they should have asked
him where they might find the law they were to live by, and by
which they should be charged or acquitted, as guilty or innocent ?
If to the sayings of the wise, and the declarations of philosophers,
he sends them into a wild wood of uncertainty, to an endless
maze, from which they should never get out ; if to the religions
of the world, yet worse : and if to their own reason, he refers them
to that which had some rule and certainty, but yet had hitherto
failed all mankind in a perfect rule ; and, we see, resolved not
the doubts that had arisen ' amongst the studious and thinking
philosophers; nor had yet been able to convince the civilised
parts of the world that they had not given, nor could without a
crime take away, the lives of their children by exposing them.

If any one should think to excuse human nature, by laying
blame on men's negligence, that they did not carry morality to a
higher pitch, and make it out entire in every part, with that clear-

LOCKE.] THE CHRISTIAN REVELATION, ETC. 49

ness of demonstration which some think it capable of, he helps
not the matter. Be the cause what it will, our Saviour found
mankind under a corruption of manners and principles, which
ages after ages had prevailed, and, must be confessed, was not
in a way or tendency to be mended. The rules of morality
were, in different countries and sects, different. And natural
reason nowhere had cured, nor was like to cure, the defects and
errors in them. Those just measures of right and wrong, which
necessity had anywhere introduced, the civil law prescribed, or
philosophy recommended, stood not on their true foundations.
They were looked on as bonds of society, and conveniences of
common life, and laudable practices. But where was it that their
obligation was thoroughly known and allowed, and they received
as precepts of a law, the highest law, the law of nature1? That
could not be, without a clear knowledge and acknowledgment of
the Lawmaker, and the 'great rewards and punishments for those

that would or would not obey Him

A great many things which we have been bred up in the belief
of from our cradles, and are notions grown familiar, (and, as it
were, natural to us under the gospel,) we take for unquestionable,
obvious truths, and easily demonstrable, without considering how
long we might have been in doubt or ignorance of them had reve-
lation been silent. And many are beholden to revelation who
do not acknowledge it. It is no diminishing to revelation that
reason gives its suffrage too to the truths revelation has dis-
covered. But it is our mistake to think, that because reason con-
firms them to us, we had the first certain knowledge of them from
thence, and in that clear evidence we now possess them. The
contrary is manifest in the defective morality of the Gentiles
before our Saviour's time, and the want of reformation in the
principles and measures of it as well as practice. Philosophy
seemed to have spent its strength, and done its utmost ; or if it
should have gone further, as we see it did not, and from unde-
niable principles given us ethics in a science like mathematics, in
every part demonstrable, this yet would not have been so effec-
tual to man in this imperfect state, nor proper for the cure. The

VOL. III. D

g0 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LOCKE.

greatest part of mankind want leisure or capacity for demonstra-
tion, nor can carry a train of proofs, which in that way they must
always depend upon for conviction, and cannot be required to
assent to till they see the demonstration. Whenever they stick,
the teachers are always put upon truth, and must clear the doubt
by a thread of coherent deductions from the first principle, how
long or how intricate soever that be. And you may as soon hope
to have all the day-labourers and tradesmen, the spinsters and dairy-
maids, perfect mathematicians, and to have them perfect in ethics
this way: hearing plain commands is the only course to bring
them to obedience and practice : the greatest part cannot know,
and therefore they must believe. And, I ask, whether one com-
ing from heaven in the power of God, in full and clear evidence
and demonstration of miracles, giving plain and direct rules of
morality and obedience, be not likelier to enlighten the bulk of
mankind, and set them right in their duties, and bring them to
do them, than by reasoning with them from general notions and
principles of human reason. And were all the duties of human
life clearly demonstrated, yet I conclude, when well considered,
that method of teaching men their duties would be thought pro-
per only for a few who had much leisure, improved understand-
ings, and were used to abstract reasonings : but the instruction of
the people were best still to be left to the precepts and principles
of the gospel. The healing of the sick, the restoring sight to the
blind by a word, the raising and being raised from the dead, are
matters of fact which they can without difficulty conceive ; and
that he who does such things must do them by the assistance of
a divine power. These things lie level to the ordinariest appre-
hension ; he that can distinguish between sick and well, lame and
sound, dead and alive, is capable of this doctrine. To one who
is once persuaded that Jesus Christ was sent by God to be a king,
and a Saviour of those who do believe in Him, all His commands
become principles ; there needs no other proof for the truth of
what He says, but that He said it : and then there needs no more
but to read the inspired books to be instructed ; all the duties of
morality lie there clear and plain, and easy to be understood. And

MILTON.] THE LIBERTY OF UNLICENSED PRINTING. 51

here I appeal, whether this be not the surest, the safest, and most
effectual way of teaching ; especially if we add this further consi-
deration, that, as it suits the lowest capacities of reasonable crea-
tures, so it reaches and satisfies, nay, enlightens the highest. The
most elevated understandings cannot but submit to the authority
of this doctrine as divine ; which, coming from the mouths of a
company of illiterate men, hath not only the attestation of
miracles, but reason to confirm it, since they delivered no pre-
cepts but such, as though reason of itself had not clearly made
out, yet it could not but assent to when thus discovered, and
think itself indebted for the discovery. The credit and authority
our Saviour and His apostles had over the minds of men, by the
miracles they did, tempted them not to mix (as we find in that of
all the sects of philosophers and other religions) any conceits,
any wrong rules, anything tending to their own by interest, or
that of a party, in their morality ; no tang of prepossession or
fancy ; no footsteps of pride or vanity ; no touch of ostentation or
ambition, appears to have a hand in it : it is all pure, all sincere ;
nothing too much, nothing wanting ; but such a complete rule of
life, as the wisest men must acknowledge, tends entirely to the
good of mankind, and that all would be happy if all would prac-
tise it.

191.— gCfye fiforfs tfSnEumft f anting

MILTON.

[!T is not creditable to the present age that Milton is neglected as a poet,
and that many persons approach the "Paradise Lost" and the "Paradise
Regained" as if they were entering upon a hard and disagreeable task. This
is one of the caprices of fashion which will not last. There is nothing in our
language, with the exception perhaps of Shakspere, Spenser, and Words-
worth, that can so fill and satisfy the mind which conceives of poetry as pos-
sessing higher capacities than that of mere entertainment, as the poetry of
Milton. We cannot expect that his prose works should be equally read, nor
have they any just claim to the pre-eminence of his poems. They are formed
upon Latin models ; and, however eloquent and grand in occasional passages,
are necessarily constrained and artificial. The extract which we give is from

52 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILTOX.

one of the most famous of his prose compositions, " Areopagitica, a Speech
for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing." John Milton was the son of John and
Sarah Milton. He was born on the 9th of December 1608, in London. He
was educated at St Paul's School, and at Christ's College, Cambridge. He
spent seven years in the University, and afterwards resided for five years in his
father's house, during which time it is supposed he wrote " Comus," and his
other minor poems. In 1637 he travelled into Italy ; he returned after an ab-
sence of fifteen months, and, whilst devoting himself to the education of his
nephews, became deeply interested in the great political questions of his day.
In 1641, he published his first political tract on " Reformation." In 1643, ne
married Mary Powell ; but repudiated her shortly afterwards, and in conse-
quence published his four " Treatises on Divorce." Milton and his wife be-
came reunited after a brief separation. In 1644, he published his "Tractate
on Education" and his " Areopagitica." After the execution of Charles I. ap-
peared his tract on "The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates;" and after his
appointment as Latin secretary to Cromwell in 1649, his " Eiconoclastes, " and
other tracts. In 1654, he became blind, after his second marriage. He mar-
ried for the third time in 1660. He published " Paradise Lost" in 1667, and
"Paradise Regained" and "Samson Agonistes" in 1671. He died on the
8th of November 1674, and was buried in St Giles's, Cripplegate.]

Lords and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is
whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors \ a nation not
slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute
to invent, subtle and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach
of any point the highest that human capacity can soar to. There-
fore the studies of learning in her deepest sciences have been so
ancient and so eminent among us, that writers of good antiquity
and able judgment, have been persuaded that even the school of
Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom took beginning from the old
philosophy of this island. And that wise and civil Roman, Julius
Agricola, who governed once here for Caesar, preferred the natural
wits of Britain before the laboured studies of the French. Nor is
it for nothing that the grave and frugal Transylvanian sends out
yearly from as far as the mountainous borders of Russia, and be-
yond the Hyrcanian wilderness, not their youth, but their staid
men, to learn our language and our theologic arts. Yet that
which is above all this, the favour and the love of Heaven, we
have great argument to think in a peculiar manner propitious and
propending towards us. Why else was this nation chosen before

MILTON.] THE LIBERTY OF UNLICENSED PRINTING. 53

any other, that out of her as out of Sion should be proclaimed and
sounded forth the first tidings and trumpet of reformation to all
Europe ? And had it not been the obstinate perverseness of our
prelates against the divine and admirable spirit of Wickliff, to
suppress him as a schismatic and innovator, perhaps neither the
Bohemian Huss and Jerome, no, nor the name of Luther, or of
Calvin, had been ever known ; the glory of reforming all our
neighbours had been completely ours. But now, as our obdurate
clergy have with violence demeaned the matter, we are become
hitherto the latest and the backwardest scholars, of whom God
offered to have made us the teachers. Now once aga'in by all
concurrence of signs, and by the general instinct of holy and de-
vout men, as they daily and solemnly express their thoughts, God
is decreeing to begin some new and great period in His Church,
even to the reforming of reformation itself; what does He then
but reveal Himself to His servants, and, as His manner is, first
to His English-men 1 I say as His manner is, first to us, though
we mark not the method of His counsels, and are unworthy.
Behold now this vast city ; a city of refuge, the mansion-house
of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection;
the shop of war hath not there more anvils and hammers working
to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice in de-
fence of beleagured truth, than there be pens and heads there sitting
by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions
and ideas wherewith to present as with their homage and their
fealty the approaching reformation ; others as fast reading, trying
all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement.
What could a man require more from a nation so pliant and so
prone to seek after knowledge ? What; wants there to such a to-
wardly and pregnant soil, but wise and faithful labourers, to make
a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies ?
We reckon more than five months yet to harvest — there need not
be five weeks ; had we but eyes to lift up, the fields are white
already. Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity
will be much arguing, much writing, many opinions ; for opinion
in good men is but knowledge in the making. Under these fan-

54 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILTOH.

tastic terrors of sect and schism we wrong the earnest and zealous
thirst after knowledge and understanding which God hath stirred
up in this city. What some lament of, we rather should rejoice
at, should rather praise this pious forwardness among men, to
reassume the ill-deputed care of their religion into their own
hands again. A little generous prudence, a little forbearance of
one another, and some grains of charity might win all these dili-
gences to join, and unite into one general and brotherly search
after truth, could we but forego this prelatical tradition of crowd-
ing free consciences and Christian liberties into canons and
precepts of men. I doubt not, if some great and worthy stranger
should come among us, wise to discern the mould and temper
of a people, and how to govern it, observing the high hopes and
aims, the diligent alacrity of our extended thoughts and reason-
ings in the pursuance of truth and freedom, but that he would
cry out as Pyrrhus did, admiring the Roman docility and courage ;
if such were my Epirus, I would not despair the greatest design
that could be attempted to make a church or kingdom happy.
Yet these are the men cried out against for schismatics and sec-
taries, as if, while the temple of the Lord was building, some cut-
ting, some squaring the marble, others hewing the cedars, there
should be a sort of irrational men who could not consider there
must be many schisms and many dissections made in the quarry
and in the timber, ere the house of God can be built. And when
every stone is laid artfully together, it cannot be united into a
continuity, it can but be contiguous in this world; neither can
every piece of the building be of one form ; nay, rather the per-
fection consists in this, that out of many moderate varieties, and
brotherly dissimilitudes tl\at are not vastly disproportional, arises
the goodly and graceful symmetry that commends the whole pile
and structure. Let us therefore be more considerate builders,
more wise in spiritual architecture, when great reformation is ex-
pected. For now the time seems come, wherein Moses, the great
prophet, may sit in heaven rejoicing to see that memorable and
glorious wish of his fulfilled, when not only our seventy elders,
but all the Lord's people, are become prophets. No marvel,

MILTON ] THE LIBERTY OF UNLICENSED PRINTING. 55

then, though some men, and some good men too, perhaps but
young in goodness, as Joshua then was, envy them. They fret,
and out of their own weakness are in agony, lest these divisions
and subdivisions will undo us. The adversary again applauds,
and waits the hour ; when they have branched themselves out,
saith he, small enough into parties and partitions, then will be
our time. Fool ! he sees not the firm root, out of which we all
grow, though into branches ; nor will beware until he see our
small divided maniples cutting through at every angle of his ill-
united and unwieldy brigade. And that we are to hope better of all
these supposed sects and schisms, and that we shall not need that
solicitude, honest perhaps, though over timorous, of them that vex
in this behalf, but shall laugh in the end at those malicious ap-
plauders of our differences, I have these reasons to persuade me :
First, when a city shall be as it were besieged and blocked
about, her navigable river infested, inroads and incursions round,
defiance and battle oft rumoured to be marching up even to her
walls and suburb trenches ; that then the people, or the greater
part, more than at other times, wholly taken up with the study of
highest and most important matters to be reformed, should be
disputing, reasoning, reading, inventing, discoursing, even to a
rarity and admiration, things not before discoursed or written of,
argues first a singular good will, contentedness, and confidence
in your prudent foresight, and safe government, Lords and Com-
mons; and from thence derives itself to a gallant bravery and
well-grounded contempt of their enemies, as if there were no
small number of as great spirits among us, as his was, who when
Rome was nigh besieged by Hannibal, being in the city, bought
that piece of ground at no cheap rate whereon Hannibal himself
encamped his own regiment. Next, it is a lively and cheerful
presage of our happy success and victory. For as in a body,
when the blood is fresh, the spirits pure and vigorous, not only to
vital, but to rational faculties, and those in the acutest and the
pertest operations of wit and subtilty, it argues in what good
plight and constitution the body is ; so when the cheerfulness of
the people is so sprightly up, as it has not only wherewith to

56 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILTON:

guard well its own freedom and safety, but to spare, and to be-
stow upon the solidest and sublimest points of controversy, and
new invention, it betokens us not degenerated, nor drooping to
a fatal decay, by casting off the old and wrinkled skin of corrup-
tion to outlive these pangs, and wax young again, entering the
glorious ways of truth and prosperous virtue, destined to become
great and honourable in these latter ages. Methinks I see in my
mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong
man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see
her as an eagle nursing her mighty youth, and kindling her un-
dazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unsealing
her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ;
while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those
also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she
means, and in their envious gabble would prognosticate a year oi
sects and schisms.

What should ye do then, should ye suppress all this flowery crop
of knowledge and new light sprung up and yet springing daily in
this city 1 Should ye set an oligarchy of twenty ingrossers over
it, to bring a famine upon out minds again, when we shall know
nothing but what is measured to us by their bushel 1 Believe it,
Lords and Commons ! they who counsel you to such a suppress-
ing, do as good as bid ye suppress yourselves ; and I will soon
show how. If it be desired to know the immediate cause of all
this free writing and free speaking, there cannot be assigned a
truer than your own mild, and free, and humane government : it
is the liberty, Lords and Commons, which your own valorous and
happy counsels have purchased us ; liberty, which is the nurse of
all great wits ; this is that which hath rarefied and enlightened
our spirits like the influence of heaven ; this is that which hath
enfranchised, enlarged, and lifted up our apprehensions degrees
above themselves. Ye cannot make us now less capable, less
knowing, less eagerly pursuing of the truth, unless ye first make
yourselves, that made us so, less the lovers, less the founders of
our true liberty. We can grow ignorant again, brutish, formal,
slavish, as ye found us ; but you then must first become that

COWLEY.] THE VISION OF OLIVER CROMWELL.

which ye cannot be, oppressive, arbitrary, and tyrannous, as they
were from whom ye have freed us. That our hearts are now
more capacious, our thoughts more erected to the search and
expectation of greatest and exactest things, is the issue of your
own virtue propagated in us ; ye cannot suppress that, unless ye
reinforce an abrogated and merciless law, that fathers may
despatch at will their own children. And who shall then stick
closest to ye, and excite others ? not he who takes up arms for
coat and conduct, and his four nobles of Dangelt. Although I
dispraise not the defence of just immunities, yet love my peace
better, if that were ail. Give me the liberty to know, to utter,
and to argue freely, according to conscience, above all liberties.

192.— C|p ®hwn of ©Kfor

COWLEY.

[ABRAHAM COWLEY, who at one time was ranked amongst the greatest of
our poets, is now read by few. He is a curious relic of that school of poetry
which rejected simplicity as beneath the dignity of verse, and aimed at express-
ing the most extravagant thoughts in the most hyperbolical language. Wit
and learning he undoubtedly had ; but in his poetry his learning becomes
pedantry and his wit affectation. He was the son of a grocer in Fleet Street,
and was bom in 1618. The works of Spenser, which he says used to lie in
his mother's parlour, were the delight of his boyhood, and made him an early
poet. He was educated at Westminster School, and at Trinity College,
Cambridge ; and having adhered to the royal cause, left his country for ten
years. At the Restoration he obtained a beneficial lease of crown lands at
Chertsey, where he died in 1667. His prose writings, unlike his poetry, are
elegant without exaggeration.]

I was interrupted by a strange and terrible apparition ; for
there appeared to me (arising out of the earth as I conceived) the
figure of a man taller than a giant, or indeed than the shadow of
any giant in the evening. His body was naked, but that naked-
ness adorned, or rather deformed, all over with several figures,
after the manner of the ancient Britons, painted upon it ; and I
perceived that most of them were the representation of the late

5 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CowLEY.

battles in our civil wars, and (if I be not much mistaken) it was
the battle of Naseby that was drawn upon his breast. His eyes
were like burning brass ; and there were three crowns of the same
metal (as I guessed), and that looked as*red-hot, too, upon his
head. He held in his right hand a sword that was yet bloody,
and nevertheless the motto of it was Pax quceritur bello ; and in
his left hand a thick book, on the back of which was written, in
letters of gold — Acts, Ordinances, Protestations, Covenants,
Engagements, Declarations, Remonstrances, &c.

Though this sudden, unusual, and dreadful object might have
quelled a greater courage than mine, yet so it pleased God (for
there is nothing bolder than a man in a vision) that I was not at
all daunted, but asked him resolutely and briefly, " What art thou V
And he said, " I am called the north-west principality, his High-
ness the Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland,
and Ireland, and the dominions belonging thereunto, for I am
that angel to whom the Almighty has committed the government
of those three kingdoms, which thou seest from this place." And
I answered and said, " If it be so, sir, it seems to me that for
almost these twenty years past your highness has been absent
from your charge ; for not only if any angel, but if any wise and
honest man had since that time been our governor, we should not
have wandered thus long in these laborious and endless labyrinths
of confusion ; but either not have entered at all into them, or at
least have returned back ere we had absolutely lost our way ; but,
instead of your highness, we have had since such a protector as
was his predecessor Richard III. to the king, his nephew ; for he
presently slew the Commonwealth which he pretended to protect,
and set up himself in the place of it ; a little less guilty, indeed,
in one respect, because the other slew an innocent, and this man
did but murder a murderer. Such a protector we have had as
we would have been glad to have changed for an enemy, and
rather received a constant Turk than this every month's apostate ;
such a protector as man is to his flocks which he shears, and
sells, or devours himself; and I would fain know what the wolf,
which he protects him from, could do more 1 Such a protector" —

COWLEY.] THE VISION OF OLIVER CROMWELL. 59

and, as I was proceeding, methought his highness seemed to put
on a displeased and threatening countenance, as men use to do
when their dearest friends happen to be traduced in their com-
pany ; which gave me the first rise of jealousy against him ; for
I did not believe that Cromwell, among all his foreign correspond-
ence, had ever held any with angels. However, I was not hard-
ened enough yet to venture a quarrel with him then ; and there-
fore (as if I had spoken to the protector himself in Whitehall) I
desired him, " that his highness would please to pardon me, if I
had unwittingly spoken anything to the disparagement of a person
whose relations to his highness I had not the honour to know."
At which he told me, " that he had no other concernment for his
late highness, than as he took him to be the greatest man that
ever was of the English nation, if not (said he) of the whole world ;
which gives me a just title to the defence of his reputation, since
I now account myself, as it were, a naturalised English angel, by
having had so long the management of the affairs of that country.
And pray, countryman," said he, very kindly, and very flatteringly,
" for I would not have you fall into the general error of the world,
that detests and decries so extraordinary a virtue ; what can be
more extraordinary than that a person of mean birth, no fortune,
no eminent qualities of body, which have sometimes, nor of mind,
which have often, raised men to the highest dignities, should have
the courage to attempt, and the happiness to succeed in, so im-
probable a design, as the destruction of one of the most ancient
and most solidly-founded monarchies upon the earth 1 that he
should have the power or boldness to put his prince and master
to an open and infamous death ; to banish that numerous and
strongly allied family ; to do all this under the name and wages of
a parliament ; to trample upon them, too, as he pleased, and spurn
them out of doors when he grew weary of them ; to raise up a
new and unheard-of monster out of their ashes ; to stifle that in its
very infancy ; and set up himself above all things that ever were
called sovereign in England ; to oppress all his enemies by arms,
and all his friends afterwards by artifice ; to serve all parties pa-
tiently for a while, and to command them victoriously at last ; to

60 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON.

overrun each corner of the three nations, and to overcome with
equal facility both the riches of the south and the poverty of the
north ; to be feared and courted by all foreign princes, and adopted
a brother to the gods of the earth ; to call together parliaments
with a word of his pen, and scatter them again by the breath of
his mouth ; to be humbly and daily petitioned, that he would
please to be hired, at the rate of two millions a year, to be the
master of those who had hired him before to be their servant ; to
have the estates and lives of three kingdoms as much at his dis-
posal, as was the little inheritance of his father, and to be as noble
and liberal in the spending of them ; and lastly, (for there is no
end of all the particulars of his glory,) to bequeath all this with
one word to his posterity j to die with peace at home and triumph
abroad, to be buried among kings, and with more than regal so-
lemnity ; and to leave a name behind him not to be extinguished
but with the whole world ; which as it is now too little for his
praises, so might have been, too, for his conquests, if the short
line of his human life could have been stretched out to the extent
of his immortal designs ?"

193.— ©it

CLARENDON.

It was a very proper answer to him who asked, Why any man
should be delighted with beauty ? that it was a question that none
but a blind man could ask ; since any beautiful object doth so
much attract the sight of all men, that it is in no man's power not
to be pleased with it. Nor can any aversion or malignity towards
the object irreconcile the eyes from looking upon it ; as a man
who hath an envenomed and mortal hatred towards another who
hath a graceful and beautiful person, cannot hinder his eye from
being delighted to behold that person, though that delight is far
from going to the heart ; as no man's malice towards an excellent
musician can keep his ear from being pleased with his music.
No man can ask how or why men came to be delighted with

CLARENDON.] ON PEA CE. 6 1

peace, but he who is without natural bowels ; who is deprived of
all those affections which can only make life pleasant to him.
Peace is that harmony in the state that health is in the body. No
honour, no profit, no plenty, can make him happy who is sick with
a fever in his blood, and with defluxions and aches in his joints
and bones ; but health restored gives a relish to the other blessings,
and is very merry without them. No kingdom can flourish or be
at ease in which there is no peace ; which only makes men dwell
at home, and enjoy the labour of their own hands, and improve
all the advantages which the air, the climate, and the soil admi-
nisters to them ; and all which yield no comfort where there is no
peace. God himself reckons health the greatest blessing He can
bestow upon mankind, and peace the greatest comfort and orna-
ment He can confer upon states ; which are a multitude of men
gathered together. They who delight most in war are so ashamed
of it, that they pretend to desire nothing but peace — that their
heart is set upon nothing else. When Caesar was engaging all the
world in war, he wrote to Tully, " There was nothing worthier of
an honest man than to have contention with nobody." It was
the highest aggravation that the prophet could find out in the de-
scription of the greatest wickedness, that " the way of peace they
knew not ;" and the greatest punishment of all their crookedness
and perverseness was, that " they should not know peace." A
greater curse cannot befall the most wicked nation than to be de-
prived of peace. There is nothing of real and substantial com-
fort in this world but what is the product of peace ; and whatso-
ever we may lawfully and innocently take delight in, is the fruit
and effect of peace. The solemn service of God, and performing
our duty to Him in the service of regular devotion, which is the
greatest business of our life, and in which we ought to take most de-
light, is the issue of peace. War breaks all that order, interrupts all
that devotion, and even extinguishes all that zeal, which peace
had kindled in us ; lays waste the dwelling-place of God as well
as of man ; and introduces and propagates opinions and practice
as much against heaven as against earth, and erects a deity that
delights in nothing but cruelty and blood. Are we pleased with

6 2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON,

the enlarged commerce and society of large and opulent cities,
or with the retired pleasures of the country ? Do we love stately
palaces, and noble houses, or take delight in pleasant groves and
woods, or fruitful gardens, which teach and instruct nature to
produce and bring forth more fruits, and flowers, and plants, than
her own store can supply her with ? All this we owe to peace,
and the dissolution of this peace disfigures all this beauty, and in
a short time covers and buries all this order and delight in ruin
and rubbish. Finally, have we any content, satisfaction, and joy,
in the conversation of each other, in the knowledge and under-
standing of those arts and sciences, which more adorn mankind
than all those buildings and plantations do the fields and grounds
on which they stand ? Even this is the blessed effect and legacy
of peace ; and war lays our natures and manners as waste as our
gardens and our habitations ; and we can as easily preserve the
beauty of the one, as the integrity of the other, under the cursed
jurisdiction of drums and trumpets.

" If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with
all men," was one of the primitive injunctions of Christianity,
(Rom. xii. 18 ;) and comprehends not only particular and private
men, (though no doubt all gentle and peaceable nations are most
capable of Christian precepts, and most affected with them,) but
kings and princes themselves. St Paul knew well, that the peace-
able inclinations and dispositions of subjects could do little good, if
the sovereign princes were disposed to war ; but if they desire to
live peaceably with their neighbours, their subjects cannot but be
happy. And the pleasure that God himself takes in that temper
needs no other manifestation, than the promise our Saviour makes
to those who contribute towards it, in his Sermon upon the
Mount, " Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called
the children of God," (Matt. v. 9.) Peace must needs be very
acceptable to him, when the instruments towards it are crowned
with such a full measure of blessing ; and it is no hard matter to
guess whose children they are, who take all the pains they can to
deprive the world of peace, and to subject it to the rage and fury
and desolation of war. If we had not the woful experience of so

CLARENDON.] ON PEACE. 63

many hundred years, we should hardly think it possible that men,
who pretend to embrace the gospel of peace, should be so un-
concerned in the obligation and effects of it ; and when God looks
upon it as the greatest blessing He can pour down upon the heads
of those who please Him best and observe His commands, " I will
give peace in the land, and ye shall lie down, and none shall
make you afraid," (Lev. xxvi. 6,) that men study nothing more than
how to throw off and deprive themselves and others of this His
precious bounty ; as if we were void of all natural reason, as well
as without the elements of religion ; for nature itself disposes us
to a love of society, which cannot be preserved without peace.
A whole city on fire is a spectacle full of horror, but a whole
kingdom on fire must be a prospect much more terrible : and
such is every kingdom in war, where nothing flourishes but
rapine, blood, and murder, and the faces of all men are pale and
ghastly, out of the sense of what they have done, or of what they
have suffered, or are to endure. The reverse of ail this is peace,
which in a moment extinguishes all that fire, binds up all the
wounds, and restores to all faces their natural vivacity and beauty.
We cannot make a more lively representation and emblem to our-
selves of hell, than by the view of a kingdom in war ; where there
is nothing to be seen but destruction and fire, and the discord
itself is a great part of the torment ; nor a more sensible reflection
upon the joys of heaven, than as it is all quiet and peace, and
where nothing is to be discerned but consent and harmony, and
what is amiable in all the circumstances of it. And, as far as we
may warrantably judge of the inhabitants of either climate, they
who love and cherish discord among men, and take delight in
war, have large mansions provided for them in that region of
faction and disagreement ; so we may presume, that they who set
their hearts upon peace in this world, and labour to promote it
in their several stations amongst all men, and who are instru-
ments to prevent the breach of it amongst princes and states, or
to renew it when it is broken, have infallible title to a place and
mansion in heaven ; where there is only peace in that perfection
that all other blessings are comprehended in it, and a part of it.

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

194.—

VARIOUS.

SPENSER, the great master of personification, thus paints the genius of the
season :—

Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,
As though he joy'd in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad
That he had banish'd hunger, which to-fore
Had by the belly oft him pinched sore :
Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'd
With ears of corn of every sort he bore ;
And in his hand a sickle he did hold,
To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had yold.

One who had a rare talent for imitation has caught the quaint phraseology
of the elder poets with something like accuracy ; — but the modern antique is
palpable : —

When Autumn bleak and sun-burnt do appear,
With his gold hand gilting the falling leaf,
Brihging up Winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the riped sheaf;
When all the hills with woody seed is white,
When levin fires and lemes do meet from far the sight :

VARIOUS.] AUTUMN. 65

When the fair apple, rudde as even sky,
Do bend the tree unto the fructile ground,
When juicy pears, and berries of black dye,
Do dance in air and call the eyne around ;
Then, be the even foul, or even fair,
Methinks my hearte's joy is stained with some care. CHATTERTON.

Rich and golden as the fruits of Autumn, are the following stanzas of one
of the true poets of times not long past : —

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
Conspiring with him how to bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run :
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary-floor,

Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or, on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers $
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook ;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music, too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft -dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ;
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in tne skies. KEATS.

VOL. III. E

66 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

After this beautiful imagery, the blank verse of another poet of the same
period sounds somewhat prosaic ; — but it has its charms : —

Nay, William, nay, not so ! the changeful year

In all its due successions to my sight

Presents but varied beauties, transient all,

All in their season good. These fading leaves,

That with their rich variety of hues

Make yonder forest in the slanting sun

So beautiful, in you awake the thought

Of winter — cold, drear winter, when these trees,

Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch

Its bare brown boughs ; when not a flower shall spread

Its colours to the day, and not a bird

Carol its joyaunce, — but all nature wear

One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate,

To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike.

To me their many-colour'd beauties speak

Of times of merriment and festival,

The year's best holiday : I call to mind

The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves

I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign

Of coming Christmas ; when at morn I took

My wooden kalendar, and counting up

Once more its often-told account, smooth 'd off

Each day with more delight the daily notch.

To you the beauties of the autumnal year

Make mournful emblems, and you think of man

Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken,

Bending beneath the burthen of his years,

Sense-dull'd and fretful, "full of aches and pains,"

Yet clinging still to life. To me they show

The calm decay of nature, when the mind

Retains its strength, and in the languid eye

Religion's holy hope kindles a joy

That makes old age look lovely. All to you

Is dark and cheerless ; you in this fair world

See some destroying principle abroad,

Air, earth, and water, full of living things,

Each on the other preying ; and the ways

Of man, a strange, perplexing labyrinth,

Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,

Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope

That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend,

That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see

VARIOUS.] AUTUMN. ^

Death still producing life, and evil still

Working its own destruction ; couldst behold

The strifes and troubles of this troubled world

With the strong eye that sees the promised day

Dawn through this night of tempest ! All things then

Would minister to joy ; then should thine heart

Be heal'd and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel

God always, everywhere, and all in all. SOUTHEY.

SHELLEY, the great master of harmony, has one of his finest lyrics for
Autumn : —

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the year

On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.

Come, months, come away,

From November to May,

In your saddest array ;

Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the night-worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the year ;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling ;

Come, months, come away,

Put on white, black, and gray,

Let your light sisters play —

Ye follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

Who has not felt that Autumn is a mournful type of human life ? Who ever
expressed the feeling more tenderly than SHAKSPERE ?

That time of year thou mayest in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

68 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

The Ayrshire ploughman paints the season with his own transparent col-
ours:—

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ;
Potato bings are snugged up frae skaith
O' coming winter's biting, frosty breath ;
The bees rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs delicious spoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek :
The thund'ring guns are heard on every side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie :
(What warm poetic heart, but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !)
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs,
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree :
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.

COLERIDGE looks upon the fields with the unerring eye of the poet -natu-
ralist :—

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Show summer gone, ere come. The fox-glove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.

VARIOUS.] A UTUMN. 6g

Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk

By rivulet or spring, or wet road-side,

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not !

One of our own day not less poetically and truly describes the Autumn
flower-garden : —

A spirit haunts the year's last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers

To himself he talks;
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh

In the walks ;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ;

Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

An hour before death ;

My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,

And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ;

Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. TENNYSON.

HAVEN, an American poet, thus moralises : —

Autumn, I love thy bower,

With faded garlands drest ;
How sweet alone to linger there,
When tempests ride the midnight air,
To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour,

The sabbath of the breast !

Autumn, I love thee well ;

Though bleak thy breezes blow,

70 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [FIELDING.

I love to see the vapours rise,
And clouds roll wildly round the skies,
Where from the plain the mountains swell,
And foaming torrents flow.

Autumn, thy fading flowers

Droop but to bloom again ;
So man, though doom'd to grief a while,
To hang on Fortune's fickle smile,
Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers,

Nor sigh for peace in vain.

195.—

FIELDING.

[HENRY FIELDING, "the father of the English novel," as he has been
justly called, was born in 1707. He was the son of General Fielding, a
descendant of the Earls of Denbigh. His means, however, were limited ; his
habits expensive. His life was one of difficulty in its middle period, and ot
physical suffering in his decline. He died at the age of forty-seven. Fielding's
first novel was 'Joseph Andrews,' which was intended as a burlesque on
Richardson's ' Pamela.' But, unlike most satirists, the author was led away
by his genius to produce something more enduring than banter or travestie.
He found out his power of delineating character — and ' Parson Adams ' will
live as long as the language. * Tom Jones ' is unquestionably Fielding's
greatest work. ' Amelia ' is more unequal. How greatly is it to be deplored
that productions of such undoubted genius have corrupting and grovelling
passages in them — in a great degree the result of the habits of the age in which
they were produced — which exclude them from general acceptation ! ' Jona-
than Wild,' from which our extract is taken, is a remarkable production, full
of that knowledge of the world which made Fielding the first of novelists, and
the most acute of magistrates.]

Jonathan Wild had every qualification necessary to form a great
man. As his most powerful and predominant passion was ambi-
tion, so nature had, with consummate propriety, adapted all his
faculties to the attaining those glorious ends to which this passion
directed him. He was extremely ingenious in inventing designs,
artful in contriving the means to accomplish his purposes, and
resolute in executing them; for as the most exquisite cunning
and most undaunted boldness qualified him for any undertaking,

FIELDING.] CHARACTER OF JONATHAN WILD. yj

so was he not restrained by any of those weaknesses which dis-
appoint the views of mean and vulgar souls, and which are com-
prehended in one general term of honesty, which is a corruption
of HONOSTY, a word derived from what the Greeks call an ass.
He was entirely free from those low vices of modesty and good-
nature, which, as he said, implied a total negation of human
greatness, and were the only qualities which absolutely rendered
a man incapable of making a considerable figure in the world.
His lusfc was inferior only to his ambition ; but as for what simple
people call love, he knew not what it was. His avarice was
immense, but it was of the rapacious not of the tenacious kind ;
his rapaciousness was indeed so violent, that nothing ever con-
tented him but the whole : for, however considerable the share
was which his coadjutors allowed him of a booty, he was restless
in inventing means to make himself master of the smallest pittance
reserved by them. He said laws were made for the use of prigs
only, and to secure their property; they were never, therefore,
more perverted than when their edge was turned against these ;
but that this generally happened through their want of sufficient
dexterity. The character which he most valued himself upon,
and which he principally honoured in others, was hypocrisy.
His opinion was, that no one could carry priggism very far with-
out it ; for which reason, he said, there was little greatness to be
expected in a man who acknowledged his vices, but always much
to be hoped from him who professed great virtues : wherefore,
though he would always shun the person whom he discovered
guilty of a good action, yet he was never deterred by a good
character, which was more commonly the effect of profession than
of action ; for which reason he himself was always very liberal of
honest professions, and had as much virtue and goodness in his
mouth as a saint ; never in the least scrupling to swear by his
honour, even to those who knew him the best ; nay, though he
held good-nature and modesty in the highest contempt, he con-
stantly practised the affectation of both, and recommended this
to others, whose welfare, on his own account, he wished well to.
He laid down several maxims as the certain method of attaining

12 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [FIELDING.

greatness, to which, in his own pursuit of it, he constantly
adhered. As —

1. Never to do more mischief to another than was necessary
to the effecting his purpose ; for that mischief was too precious a
thing to be thrown away.

2. To know no distinction of men from affection ; but to sacri-
fice all with equal readiness to his interest.

3. Never to communicate more of an affair than was necessary
to the person who was to execute it.

4. Not to trust him who hath deceived you, nor who knows he
hath been deceived by you.

5. To forgive no enemy ; but to be cautious, and often dilatory,
in revenge.

6. To shun poverty and distress, and to ally himself as close as
possible to power and riches.

7. To maintain a constant gravity in his countenance and be-
haviour, and to affect wisdom on all occasions.

8. To foment eternal jealousies in his gang one of another.

9. Never to reward any one equal to his merit ; but always to
insinuate that the reward was above it.

10. That all men were knaves or fools, and much the greater
number a composition of both.

11. That a good name, like money, must be parted with, or at
least greatly risked, in order to bring the owner any advantage.

1 2. That virtues, like precious stones, were easily counterfeited ;
but the counterfeits in both cases adorned the wearer equally, and
that very few had knowledge or discernment sufficient to distin-
guish the counterfeit jewel from the real.

13. That many men were undone by not going deep enough in
roguery ; as in gaming any man may be a loser who doth not play
the whole game.

14. That men proclaim their own virtues, as shopkeepers ex-
pose their goods, in order to profit by them.

15. That the heart was the proper seat of hatred, and the coun-
tenance of affection and friendship.

He had many more of the same kind, all equally good with

FIELDING.] CHARACTER OF yONATHAN WILD. 73

these, and which were after his decease found in his study, as the
twelve excellent and celebrated rules were in that of King Charles
I. ; for he never promulgated them in his lifetime, not having
them constantly in his mouth, as some grave persons have the
rules of virtue and morality, without paying the least regard to
them in their actions ; whereas our hero, by a constant and steady
adherence to his rules in conforming everything he did to them,
acquired at length a settled habit of walking by them, till at last
he was in no danger of inadvertently going out of the way ; and
by these means he arrived at that degree of greatness which few
have equalled ; none, we may say, have exceeded : for, though it
must be allowed that there have been some few heroes who have
done greater mischiefs to mankind, such as those who have be-
trayed the liberty of their country to others, or have undermined
and overpowered it themselves ; or conquerors who have impove-
rished, pillaged, sacked, burnt, and destroyed the countries and
cities of their fellow-creatures, from no other provocation than that
of glory, i.e. as the tragic poet calls it,

"a privilege to kill,
A strong temptation to do bravely ill;"

yet when we see our hero, without the least assistance or pre-
tence setting himself at the head of a gang which he had not any
shadow of right to govern ; if we view him maintaining absolute
power and exercising tyranny over a lawless crew, contrary to all
law but that of his own will ; if we consider him setting up an
open trade publicly, in defiance not only of the laws of his coun-
try, but of the common sense of his countrymen ; if we see him
first contriving the robbery of others, and again the defrauding
the very robbers of that booty which they had ventured their necks
to acquire, and which, without any hazard, they might have re-
tained ; here surely he must appear admirable, and we may chal-
lenge not only the truth of history, but almost the latitude of
fiction, to equal his glory.

Nor had he any of those flaws in his character which, though
they have been commended by weak writers, have by the judicious

74 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

readers been censured and despised. Such was the clemency of
Alexander and Caesar, which nature had so grossly erred in giving
them, as a painter would who should dress a peasant in robes of
state, or give the nose or any other feature of a Venus to a satyr.
What had the destroyers of mankind, that glorious pair, one of
whom came into the world to usurp the dominion and abolish the
constitution of his own country ; the other to conquer, enslave,
and rule over the whole world, at least as much as was well known
to him, and the shortness of his life would give him leave to visit ;
what had, I say, such as these to do with clemency *{ Who cajinot
see the absurdity and contradiction of mixing such an ingredient
with those noble and great qualities I have before mentioned ?
Now, in Wild everything was truly great, almost without alloy, as
his imperfections (for surely some small ones he had) were only
such as served to denominate him a human creature, of which
kind none ever arrived at consummate excellence. Indeed, while
greatness consists in power, pride, insolence, and doing mischief
to mankind — to speak out — while a great man and a great rogue
are synonymous terms, so long shall Wild stand unrivalled on the
pinnacle of GREATNESS. Nor must we omit here, as the finishing
of his character, what indeed ought to be remembered on his tomb
or his statue, the conformity above mentioned of his death to his
life ; and that Jonathan Wild the Great, after all his mighty ex-
ploits, was, what so few GREAT men can accomplish — hanged by
the neck till he was dead.

196.— C xmtefess

CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

[THREE female writers of fiction have, during the last two decades, estab-
lished their claim to a high rank amongst the best authors. It has been the
good fortune— perhaps it would be better to say, the rare merit — of one publish-
ing house, that of Messrs Smith and Elder, to give to the world the writings
of Miss Bronte", (appearing under the pseudonym of Currer Bell,) of the lady
who adopts the name of George Eliot, and of Mrs Gaskell. From the "Jane

CHARLOTTE BRONT^.] THE HOMELESS WANDERER, *, e

Eyre " of the first ; from the " Romola" of the second ; and from the " Cousin
Phillis " of the third, we shall venture to give such extracts as may be read
with interest ; however each may lose some of its value from being separated
from the general narrative. Charlotte Bronte was born in 1824. Her father
was the Rev. Patrick Bronte, curate of Haworth in Yorkshire. The novel
of "Jane Eyre" was published in 1847. It was not the first production of
Miss Bronte's pen; but its surpassing vigour and originality produced a
general admiration of the power of the writer, as much as its somewhat eccen-
tric cast of thought furnished some hostile criticism. She married, in June

1854, the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, her father's curate, and died in March

1855. Her two sisters, Anne and Emily, had died a few years before of the
same pulmonary complaint, which was fatal to this the most gifted of the
family.]

To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now
only to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least
hidden, if not secure ; but all the surface of the waste looked level.
It showed no variation but of tint : green, where rush and moss
overgrew the marshes ; black, where the dry soil bore only heath.
Dark as it was getting, I could still see the changes ; though but
as mere alterations of light and shade : for colour had faded with
the daylight.

My eye still roved over the sullen swell, and along the moor-
edge, vanishing amidst the wildest scenery ; when at one dim
point, far in among the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up.
" That is an ignis fatuus" was my first thought ; and I expected
it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quite steadily;
neither receding nor advancing. " Is it, then, a bonfire just kin-
dled?" I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread :
but no, as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge. " It may be
a candle in a house," I then conjectured : " but if so, I can never
reach it. It is much too far away ; and were it within a yard of
me, what would it avail ? I should but knock at the door to have
it shut in my face."

And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the
ground. I lay still a while : the night-wind swept over the hill
and over me, and died moaning in the distance ; the rain fell fast,
wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I but have stiffened to the

7 6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHARLOTTE BRONT«.

still frost — the friend by numbness of death — it might have pelted
on : I should not have felt it ; but my yet living flesh shuddered
to its chilling influence. I rose ere long.

The light was yet there : shining dim, but constant, through the
rain. I tried to walk again : I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly
towards it. It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog ;
which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and
shaking even now, in the height of summer. Here I fell twice ;
but as often I rose and rallied my faculties. This light was my
forlorn hope : I must gain it.

Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the
moor. I approached it ; it was a road or a track : it led straight
up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a
clump of trees — firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of
the character of their forms and foliage through the gloom. My
star vanished as I drew near : some obstacle had intervened be-
tween me and it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before
me : I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall— above it,
something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge.
I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me : it was
a gate — a wicket : it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On
each side stood a sable bush — holly or yew.

Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a
house rose to view ; black, low, and rather long ; but the guiding
light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates re-
tired to rest ? I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I
turned an angle : there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the
lozenged panes of a very small latticed window, within a foot of
the ground : made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other
creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of
the house wall in which it was set. The aperture was so screened
and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been deemed unneces-
sary ; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage
shooting over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a
room with a sanded floor, clean scoured ; a dresser of walnut,
with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and

CHARLOTTE BRONT£.] THE HOMELESS WANDERER.

radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal
table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon,
burnt on the table ; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat
rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about her, was
knitting a stocking.

I noticed these objects cursorily only — in them there was
nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near
the hearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffus-
ing it. Two young, graceful women — ladies in every point — sat,
one on a low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool ; both wore
deep mourning of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb sin-
gularly set off very fair necks and faces ; a large old pointer dog
rested its massive head on the knee of one girl — in the lap of the
other was cushioned a black cat.

A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants !
Who were they ? They could not be the daughters of the elderly
person at the table ; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all
delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs;
and yet, as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every linea-
ment. I cannot call them handsome — they were too pale and
grave for the word : as they each bent over a book, they looked
thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them supported
a second candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently
referred ; comparing them seemingly with the smaller books they
held in their hands, like people consulting a dictionary to aid
them in the task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all
the figures had been shadows, and the fire-lit apartment a picture ;
so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall from the grate, the
clock tick in its obscure corner ; and I even fancied I could dis-
tinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When,
therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible
enough to me.

" Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed students ; " Franz
and old Daniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling
a dream, from which he has awakened in terror — listen ! " And
in a low voice she read something, of which not one word was

78 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [CHARLOTTE BRONrfl.

intelligible to me ; for it was in an unknown tongue, neither
French nor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German I could
not tell.

" That is strong," she said, when she had finished : " I relish
it." The other girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister,
repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read.
At a later day, I knew the language and the book ; therefore I
will here quote the line : though when I first heard it, it was
only like a stroke on sounding brass to me — conveying no mean-
ing:—

" * Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.'
Good ! good ! " she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye
sparkled. " There you have a dim and mighty archangel fitly
set before you. The line is worth a hundred pages of fustian.
' Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die
Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.' I like it ! "

Both were again silent.

" Is there ony country where they talk i' that way 1 " asked the
old woman, looking up from her knitting.

"Yes, Hannah — a far larger country than England; where
they talk in no other way."

" Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t' one
t' other : and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what they
say, I guess ? "

" We could probably tell something of what they said, but not
all — for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't
speak German, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to
help us."

" And what good does it do you ? "

" We mean to teach it some time — or at least the elements, as
they say ; and then we shall get more money than we do now."

" Varry like ; but give ower studying : ye Ve done enough for
to-night."

" I think we have : at least I am tired. Mary, are you 1 "

" Mortally : after all, it 's tough work fagging away at a language
with no master but a lexicon."

CHARLOTTE BRONT^.] THE HOMELESS WANDERER. yg

" It is : especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious
Deutsch. I wonder when St John will come home."

" Surely he will not be long now : it is just ten (looking at a
little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast. Han-
nah, will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour]"

The woman rose : she opened a door, through which I dimly
saw a passage : soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room ; she
presently came back.

"Ah, childer !" said she, "it fair troubles me to go into yond'
room now : it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back
in a corner."

She wiped her eyes with her apron : the two girls, grave before,
looked sad now.

" But he is in a better place," continued Hannah ! " we shouldn't
wish him here again. And then nobody need to have a quieter
death nor he had."

" You say he never mentioned us f inquired one of the ladies.

" He hadn't time, bairn : he was gone in a minute — was your
father. He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught
to signify ; and when Mr St John asked if he would like either o'
ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a
bit of heaviness in his head the next day — that is, a fortnight sin'
— and he went to sleep and niver wakened : he wor a'most stark
when your brother went into t' chamber and fand him. Ah,
childer, that 's t' last o' t' old stock — for you and Mr St John is
like of a different soart to them 'at 's gone ; for all your mother
wor much i' your way ; and a'most as book-learned. She wor the
pictur' o' ye, Mary : Diana is more like your father."

I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant
(for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both
were fair-complexion ed and slenderly made ; both possessed faces
full of distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a
shade darker than the other, and there was a difference in their
style of wearing it ; Mary's pale brown locks were parted and
braided smooth ; Diana's duskier tresses covered her neck with
thick curls. The clock struck ten.

80 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHARLOTTE BRONTfi.

"Ye '11 want your supper, I am sure," observed Hannah; " and
so will Mr St John when he comes in."

And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose ; they
seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment I
had been so intent on watching them, their appearance and con-
versation had excited in me so keen an interest, I had half-for-
gotten my own wretched position : now it recurred to me. More
desolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. And
how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates of this house
with concern on my behalf ; to make them believe in the truth of
my wants and woes — to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my
wanderings ! As I groped out the door and knocked at it hesi-
tatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera. Hannah
opened.

" What do you want?" she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as
she surveyed me by the light of the candle she held

" May I speak to your mistresses ? " I said.

" You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where
do you come from ? "

"I am a stranger."

" What is your business here at this hour V*

" I want a night's shelter in an outhouse, or anywhere, and a
morsel of bread to eat."

Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face.
" I '11 give you a piece of bread," she said, after a pause ; " but we
can't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely."

" Do let me speak to your mistresses."

" No ; not I. What can they do for you? You should not be
roving about now ; it looks very ill."

" But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?"

" Oh, I '11 warrant you know where to go, and what to do.
Mind you don't do wrong, that's all Here is a penny; now
go"

" A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go far-
ther. Don't shut the door — oh, don't, for God's sake ! "

" I must ; the rain is driving in "

CHARLOTTE BRONT&] THE HOMELESS WANDERER. 5r

" Tell the young ladies. Let me see them."

" Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you
wouldn't make such a noise. Move off."

" But I must die if I am turned away."

" Not you. I 'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that
bring you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you ;ve any
followers — housebreakers or such like — anywhere near, you may
tell them we are not by ourselves in the house ; we have a gentle-
man, and dogs, and guns." Here the honest but inflexible ser-
vant clapped the door to and bolted it within.

This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering — a throe
of true despair — rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I
was j not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet door-step :
I groaned, I wrung my hands, I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this
spectre of death ! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror !
Alas, this isolation, this banishment from my kind ! Not only
the anchor of home, but the footing of fortitude was gone — at
least for a moment : but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.

" I can but die," I said ; " and I believe in God. Let me try
to wait His will in silence."

These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting
back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it
to remain there, dumb and still.

" All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand ; " but all
are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such
as yours would be if you perished here of want."

" Who or what speaks ? " I asked, terrified at the unexpected
sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope
of aid. A form was near — what form, the pitch-dark night and
my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a
loud, long knock, the new comer appealed to the door.

" Is it you, Mr St John?" cried Hannah.

" Yes, — yes ; open quickly."

" Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it
is ! Come in ; your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I
believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-

VOL. III. F

82 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [CHARLOTTE BRONT^.

woman — I declare she is not gone yet ! — laid down there. Get
up ! for shame ! Move off, I say ! "

" Hush, Hannah ! I have a word to say to the woman. You
have done your duty in excluding, now let*me do mine in admit-
ting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her. I think
this is a peculiar case, — I must at least examine into it. Young
woman, rise, and pass before me into the house."

With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that
clean, bright kitchen — on the very hearth, trembling, sickening ;
conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and wea-
ther-beaten. The two ladies, their brother Mr St John, the old
servant, were all gazing at me.

" St John, who is it 1" I heard one ask.

" I cannot tell : I found her at the door," was the reply.

" She does look white," said Hannah.

" As white as clay or death," was responded. " She will fall :
let her sit."

And indeed my head swam : I dropped ; but a chair received
me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not
speak.

"Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch
some. But she is worn to nothing, How very thin, and how
very bloodless ! "

" A mere spectre ! "

" Is she ill, or only famished ? "

" Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk 1 Give it me, and
a piece of bread."

Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping
between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread,
dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near
mine : I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hur-
ried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like
emotion spoke : " Try to eat."

" Yes— try," repeated Mary, gently ; and Mary's hand removed
my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered
me : feebly at first, eagerly soon.

CHARLOTTE BRONT!] THE HOMELESS WANDERER. 8t

" Not too much at first — restrain her," said the brother ; « she
has had enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the
plate of bread.

" A little more, St John— look at the avidity in her eyes."

" No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now— ask
her her name."

I felt I could speak, and I answered — "My name is Jane
Elliot." Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before re-
solved to assume an alias.

" And where do you live 1 Where are your friends ? "

I was silent.

" Can we send for any one you know?"

I shook my head.

"What account can you give of yourself?"

Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this
house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt
no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I
dared to put off the mendicant, to resume my natural manner
and character. I began once more to know myself; and when
Mr St John demanded an account — which at present I was far too
weak to render — I said, after a brief pause —

" Sir, I can give you no details to-night."

" But what, then," said he, " do you expect me to do for
you?"

" Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for but short an-
swers. Diana took the word : —

" Do you mean," she asked, " that we have now given you what
aid you require, and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the
rainy night?"

I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable counte-
nance ; instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden
courage. Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said:
" I will trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know
that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night : as it is, I
really have no fear. Do with me and for me as you like ; but
excuse me from much discourse — my breath is short — I feel a

84 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

spasm when I speak." All three surveyed me, and all three were
silent.

" Hannah," said Mr St John, at last, " let her sit there at pre-
sent, and ask her no questions ; in ten minutes more give her the
remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go
into the parlour and talk the matter over."

They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned — I could
not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me
as I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some di-
rections to Hannah. Erelong, with the servant's aid, I contrived
to mount a staircase ; my dripping clothes were removed ; soon a
warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God — experienced amidst
unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy — and slept.

197. — j§erm0tt nyan % Itofre 0f am

BISHOP BUTLER.

["AND if there be any other commandment, it is briefly comprehended in
this saying, namely, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." — ROM. xiii. 9.]

It is commonly observed, that there is a disposition in men to
complain of the viciousness and corruption of the age in which
they live, as greater than that of former ones ; which observation
is usually followed with this further one, that mankind has been
in that respect much the same in all times. Now, not to deter-
mine whether this last be not contradicted by the accounts of
history, thus much can scarce be doubted, that vice and folly take
different turns, and some particular kinds of it are more open
and avowed in some ages than others : and, I suppose, it may be
spoken of as very much the distinction of the present, to profess
a contracted spirit, and greater regards to self-interest than ap-
pears to have been done formerly. Upon this account it seems
worth while to inquire whether private interest is likely to be pro-
moted in proportion to the degree in which self-love engrosses
us, and prevails over all other principles j or whether the con-

BISHOP BUTLER.] SERMON UPON THE LOVE OF OUR NEIGHBOUR. 85

tracted affection may not possibly be so prevalent as to disappoint
itself, and even contradict its own end — private good.

And since, further, there is generally thought to be some pecu-
liar kind of contrariety between self-love and the love of our
neighbour ; between the pursuit of public and of private good ;
insomuch that, when you are recommending one of these, you
are supposed to be speaking against the other ; and from hence
ariseth a secret prejudice against, and frequently open scorn of,
all talk of public spirit, and real good-will to our fellow-creatures ;
it will be necessary to inquire what respect benevolence hath to
self-love, and the pursuit of private interest to the pursuit of
public ; or whether there be anything of that peculiar inconsistence
and contrariety between them over and above what there is be-
tween self-love and other passions and particular affections, and
their respective pursuits.

These inquiries, it is hoped, may be favourably attended to ;
for there shall be all possible concessions made to the favourite
passion, which hath so much allowed to it, and whose cause is so
universally pleaded ; it shall be treated with the utmost tender-
ness and concern for its interests.

In order to this, as well as to determine the forementioned
questions, it will be necessary to consider the nature, the object,
and end of that self-love, as distinguished from other principles
or affections in the mind, and their respective objects. Every
man hath a general desire of his own happiness ; and likewise
a variety of particular affections, passions, and appetites to
particular external objects. The former proceeds from, or is,
self-love ; and seems inseparable from all sensible creatures who
can reflect upon themselves. What is to be said of the latter
is, that they proceed from, or together make up, that particular
nature according to which man is made. The object the former
pursues is somewhat external, our own happiness, enjoyment,
satisfaction : whether we have or have not a distinct particular
perception what it is, or wherein it consists. The objects of
the latter are this or that particular external thing, which the
affections tend towards, and of which it hath always a par*.

86 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

ticular idea or perception. The principle we call self-love never
seeks anything external for the sake of the thing, but only as a
means of happiness or good ; particular affections rest in the
external things themselves. One belongs to man as a reasonable
creature; the other, though quite distinct from reason, is as
much a part of human nature. That all particular appetites and
passions are towards external things themselves, distinct from the
pleasure arising from them, is manifest from hence, that there
could not be this pleasure, were it not for that prior suitableness
between the object and the passion ; there could be no enjoy-
ment or delight from one thing more than another, from eating
food more than from swallowing a stone, if there were not an
affection or appetite to one thing more than another. Every par-
ticular affection, even the love of our neighbour, is as really our
own affection as self-love ; and the pleasure arising from its
gratification is as much my own pleasure, as the pleasure self-love
would have, from knowing I myself should be happy some time
hence, would be my own pleasure. And if, because every
particular affection is a man's own, and the pleasure arising from
its gratification his own pleasure, or pleasure to himself, such par-
ticular affection must be called self-love ; according to this way
of speaking, no creature whatever can possibly act but merely
from self-love ; and every action and every affection whatever is
to be resolved into this one principle. But then this is not
the language of mankind, or, if it were, we should want words to
express the difference between the principle of an action, pro-
ceeding from cool consideration that it will be to my own advan-
tage ; and an action, suppose of revenge or of friendship, by
which a man runs upon certain ruin to do evil or good to another.
It is manifest the principles of these actions are totally different,
and so want different words to be distinguished by ; all that they
agree in is, that they both proceed from, and are done to gratify
an inclination in a man's self. But the principle or inclination
in one case is self-love ; in the other, hatred or love of another.
There is then a distinction between the cool principle of self-love,
or general desire of our own happiness, as one part of our

BISHOP BUTLER.] SERMON UPON THE LOVE OF OUR NEIGHBOUR. 87

nature, and one principle of action; and the particular affections
towards particular external objects, as another part of our nature,
and another principle of action. How much soever therefore is
to be allowed to self-love, yet it cannot be allowed to be the
whole of our inward constitution; because, you see, there are
other parts or principles which come into it. Further, private
happiness or good is all which self-love can make us desire, or be
concerned about; in having this consists its gratification : it is an
affection to ourselves, a regard to our own interest, happiness,
and private good ; and in the proportion a man hath this, he is
interested, or a lover of himself. Let this be kept in mind ; be-
cause there is commonly, as I shall presently have occasion to
observe, another sense put upon these words. On the other
hand, particular affections tend towards particular external things;
these are their objects : having these is their end : in this consists
their gratification : no matter whether it be or be not, upon the
whole, our interest or happiness. An action done from the
former of these principles is called an interested action. An
action proceeding from any of the latter has its denomination of
passionate, ambitious, friendly, revengeful, or any other, from the
particular appetite or affection from which it proceeds. Thus
self-love as one part of human nature, and the several particular
principles as the other part, are, themselves, their objects and
ends, stated and shown.

From hence it is easy to see how far, and in what way, each of
these can contribute, and be subservient to, the private good of
the individual. Happiness does not consist in self-love. The
desire of happiness is no more the thing itself, than the desire of
riches is the possession or enjoyment of them. People may love
themselves with the most entire and unbounded affection, and yet
be extremely miserable. Neither can self-love any way help them
out, but by setting them on work to get rid of the causes of their
misery, to gain or make use of those objects which are by nature
adapted to afford satisfaction. Happiness or satisfaction consists
only in the enjoyment of those objects, which are by nature
suited to our several appetites, passions, and affections. So that,

88 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

if self-love wholly engrosses us, and leaves no room for any other
principle, there can be absolutely no such thing at all as happi-
ness, or enjoyment of any kind whatever • since happiness con-
sists in the gratification of particular passion's, which supposes the
having of them. Self-love, then, does not constitute this or that
to be our interest or good ; but our interest or good being consti-
tuted by nature, and supposed, self-love only puts us upon obtain-
ing and securing it. Therefore, if it be possible that self-love may
prevail and exert itself in a degree or manner which is not
subservient to this end, then it will not follow that our interest
will be promoted in proportion to the degree in which that
principle engrosses us, and prevails over others. Nay, further,
the private and contracted affection may, for anything that
appears, have a direct contrary tendency and effect. And, if we
will consider the matter, we shall see that it often really has.
Disengagement is absolutely necessary to enjoyment ; and a per-
son may have so steady and fixed an eye upon his own interest,
whatever he places it in, as may give him great and unnecessary
solicitude and anxiety, and hinder him from attending to many
gratifications within his reach, which others have their minds free
and open to. Over-fondness for a child is not generally thought
to be for its advantage : and, if there be any guess to be made
from appearances, surely that character we call selfish is not the
most promising for happiness. Such a temper may plainly be
and exert itself in a degree and manner, which may prevent ob-
taining the means and materials of enjoyment, as well as the
making use of them. Immoderate self-love does very ill consult
its own interests ; and, how much soever a paradox it may appear,
it is certainly true, that even from self-love we should endeavour
to get over all inordinate regard to, and consideration of, ourselves.
Every one of our faculties has its stint and bound : our enjoy-
ments can be but in a determinate measure and degree. The
principle of self-love, so far as it sets us on work to gain and make
use of the materials of satisfaction, maybe to our real advantage;
but, beyond or besides this, it is in several respects an inconveni-
ence and disadvantage. Thus it appears, that private interest is

BISHOP BUTLER.] SERMON UPON THE LOVE OF OUR NEIGHBOUR. 80

so far from being likely to be promoted in proportion to the
degree in which self-love engrosses us, and prevails over all other
principles, that the contracted affection may be so prevalent as to
disappoint itself, and even contradict its own end, private good.

"But who, except the most sordidly covetous, ever thought
there was any rivalship between the love of greatness, honour,
power, or sensual appetites, and self-love 1 No, there is a perfect
harmony between them. It is by means of these particular
appetites and affections that self-love is gratified in enjoyment,
happiness, and satisfaction. The competition and rivalship is
between self-love and the love of our neighbour : that affection
which leads us out of ourselves makes us regardless of our own
interest, and substitutes that of another in its stead." Whether
there be any peculiar competition and contrariety in this case,
shall now be considered. Self-love and interestedness was stated
to consist in or be an affection to ourselves, a regard to our own
private good : it is therefore distinct from benevolence, which is
an affection to the good of our fellow-creatures. But that bene-
volence is distinct from, that is, not the same thing with, self-love,
is no reason for its being looked upon with any peculiar suspi-
cion ; because every principle whatever, by means of which that
self-love is gratified, is distinct from it : and all things which are
distinct from each other are equally so. A man has an affection
or aversion to another ; that one of these tends to and is gratified
by doing good, that the other tends to and is gratified by doing
harm, does not in the least alter the respect which either one or
the other of these inward feelings has to self-love. We use the
word property so as to exclude any other persons having an in-
terest in that of which we say a particular man has the property.
And we often use the word selfish so as to exclude all'regards to
the good of others. And as it is taken for granted, in the former
case, that the external good, in which we have a property ex-
clusive of all others, must for this reason have a nearer and
greater respect to private interest, than it would have if it were
enjoyed in common with others ; so likewise it is taken for
granted, that the principle of an action, which does not proceed

90 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

from regard to the good of others, has a nearer and greater re-
spect to self-love, or is less distant from it. But whoever will £t
all attend to the thing will see that these consequences do not
follow. For as the enjoyment of the air in which we breathe is
just as much our private interest and advantage now, as it would
be if none but ourselves had the benefit of it ; so love of our
neighbour has just the same respect to, is no more distant from,
self-love, than hatred of our neighbour, or than love or hatred of
anything else. Thus the principles from which men rush upon
certain ruin for the destruction of an enemy, and for the preser-
vation of a friend, have the same respect to the private affection,
and are equally interested or equally disinterested : and it is of
no avail, whether they are said to be one or the other. There-
fore, to those who are shocked to hear virtue spoken of as disin-
terested, it may be allowed that it is indeed absurd to speak thus
of it ; unless hatred, several particular instances of vice, and all
the common affections and aversions in mankind, are acknow
ledged to be disinterested too. Is there any less inconsistence
between the love of inanimate things or of creatures merely
sensitive and self-love, than between self-love and the love of our
neighbour 1 Is desire of and delight in the happiness of another
any more a diminution of self-love, than desire of and delight in
the esteem of another? They are both equally desire of and
delight in somewhat external to ourselves j either both or neither
are so. The object of self-love is expressed in the term self; and
every appetite of sense, and every particular affection of the heart,
are equally interested or disinterested, because the objects of
them all are equally self or somewhat else. Whatever ridicule,
therefore, the mention of a disinterested principle or action may
be supposed to be open to, must, upon the matter being thus
stated, relate to ambition, and every appetite and particular affec-
tion, as much as to benevolence. And, indeed, all the ridicule
and all the grave perplexity of which this subject hath had its
full share, is merely from words. The most intelligible way of
speaking of it seems to be this : that self-love, and the actions
done in consequence of it, are interested ; that particular affec

BISHOP BUTLER.] SERMON UPON THE LOVE OF OUR NEIGHBOUR. 91

tions towards external objects, and the actions done in con-
sequence of those affections, are not so. But every one is at
liberty to use words as he pleases. All that is here insisted upon
is, that ambition, revenge, benevolence, all particular passions
whatever, and the actions they produce, are equally interested or
disinterested.

But, since self-love is not private good, since interestedness is
not interest, let us now see whether benevolence has not the
same respect to, the same tendency toward, promoting private
good and interest, with the other particular passions ; as it hath
been already shown, that they have all in common the same re-
spect to self-love and interestedness. One man's affection is to
honour as his end, in order to obtain which he thinks no pains
too great. Suppose another with such a singularity of mind, as
to have the same affection to public good as his end, which he
endeavours with the same labour to obtain. In case of success,
surely the man of benevolence hath as great enjoyment as the
man of ambition, they both equally having the end their affec-
tions in the same degree tended to ; but, in case of disappoint-
ment, the benevolent man has clearly the advantage, since bene-
volence, considered as a principle of virtue, is gratified by its own
consciousness, z.£, is in a degree its own reward.

And as to these two, or any other particular passions con-
sidered in a further view as forming a general temper, which
more or less disposes us for enjoyment of all the common bless-
ings of life, distinct from their own gratification, does the bene-
volent man appear less easy with himself, from his love to his
neighbour? Does he less relish his being? Is there any pecu-
liar gloom seated on his face ? Is his mind less open to enter-
tainment, to any particular gratification 1 Nothing is more
manifest than that being in good humour, which is benevolence
while it lasts, is itself the temper of satisfaction and enjoyment.

Suppose, then, a man sitting down to consider how he might
become most easy to himself, and attain the greatest pleasure he
could ; all that which is his real natural happiness. This can only
consist in the enjoyment of those objects which are by nature

92 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. t^iSHOP BUTLER.

adapted to our several faculties. These particular enjoyments
make up the sum total of our happiness ; and they are supposed
to arise from riches, honours, and the gratification of sensual
appetites. Be it so ; yet none profess themselves so completely
happy in these enjoyments, but that there is room left in the mind
for others, if they were presented to them : nay, these, as much
as they engage us, are not thought so high, but that human
nature is capable even of greater. Now, there have been persons
in all ages who have professed that they found satisfaction in the
exercise of charity, in the love of their neighbour, in endeavour-
ing to promote the happiness of all they had to do with, and in
the pursuit of what is just and right and good, as the general bent
of their mind and end of their life ; and that doing an action of
baseness or cruelty would be as great violence to their self, as
much breaking in upon their nature, as any external force. Per-
sons of this character would add, if they might be heard, that they
consider themselves as acting in the view of an infinite Being,
who is in a much higher sense the object of reverence and of
love than all the world besides ; and, therefore, they could have
no more enjoyment from a wicked action done under His eye,
than the persons to whom they are making their apology could,
if all mankind were the spectators of it ; and that the satisfaction
of approving themselves to His unerring judgment, to whom they
thus refer all their actions, is a more continued settled satisfaction
than any this world can afford. And, if we go no further, does
there appear any absurdity in this ? Will any one take upon him
to say, that a man cannot find his account in this general course
of life, as much as in the most unbounded ambition and the ex-
cesses of pleasure? Or that such a person has not consulted
so well for himself, for the satisfaction and peace of his own
mind, as the ambitious or dissolute man ? And though the con-
sideration, that God himself will in the end justify their taste, and
support their cause, is not formally to be insisted upon here ; yet
thus much comes in, that all enjoyments whatever are much more
clear and unmixed from the assurance that they will end well. Is
it certain, then, that there is nothing in these pretensions to

BISHOP BUTLER.] SERMON UPON THE LOVE OF OUR NEIGHBOUR. 93

happiness ? especially when there are not wanting persons, who
have supported themselves with satisfactions of this kind in sick-
ness, poverty, disgrace, and in the very pangs of death ; whereas,
it is manifest, all other enjoyments fail in these circumstances.
This surely looks suspicious of having somewhat in it. Self-love,
methinks, should be alarmed. May she not possibly pass over
greater pleasures than those she is so wholly taken up with ]

The short of the matter is no more than this — happiness con-
sists in the gratification of certain affections, appetites, passions,
with objects which are by nature adapted to them. Self-love may
indeed set us on work to gratify these ; but happiness or enjoy-
ment has no immediate connexion with self-love, but arises from
such gratification alone. Love of our neighbour is one of those
affections. This, considered as a virtuous principle^ is gratified by a
consciousness of endeavouring to promote the good of others; but,
considered as a natural affection, its gratification consists in the
actual accomplishment of this endeavour. Now, indulgence ot
this affection, whether in that consciousness or this accomplish-
ment, has the same respect to interest as indulgence of any other
affection ; they equally proceed from or do not proceed from,
self-love, they equally include or equally exclude this principle.
Thus it appears, that benevolence and the pursuit of public good
hath just the same respect to self-love and the pursuit of private
good, with all other particular passions and their respective pur-
suits.

Neither is covetousness, whether as a temper or pursuit, any
exception to this. For, if by covetousness is meant the desire
and pursuit of riches for their own sake, without any regard to or
consideration of the use of them, this hath as little to do with
self-love as benevolence hath. But by this word is usually meant,
not such madness and total distraction of mind, but immoderate
affection to and pursuit of riches as possessions in order to some
further end, namely, satisfaction, interest, or good. This, there-
fore, is not a particular affection or particular pursuit, but it is the
general principle of self-love and the general pursuit of our own
interest ; for which reason the word selfish is by every one appro-

94 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

priated to this temper and pursuit. Now, as it is ridiculous to
assert that self-love and the love of our neighbour are the same,
so neither is it asserted that following these different affections
hath the same tendency and respect to our own interest. The
comparison is not between self-love and the love of our neighbour,
between pursuit of our own interest and the interests of others ;
but between the several particular affections in human nature
towards external objects, as one part of the comparison, and the
one particular affection to the good of our neighbour, as the other
part of it ; and it has been shown, that all these have the same
respect to self-love and private interest.

There is, indeed, frequently an inconsistence or interfering be-
tween self-love or private interest, and the several particular
appetites, passions, affections, or the pursuits they lead to. But
this competition or interfering is merely accidental, and happens
much oftener between pride, revenge, sensual gratifications, and
private interest, than between private interest and benevolence.
For nothing is more common than to see men give themselves up
to a passion or an affection to their known prejudice and ruin,
and in direct contradiction to manifest and real interest and the
loudest calls of self-love. But the seeming competitions and in-
terfering between benevolence and private interest relate much
more to the materials or means of enjoyment, than to enjoyment
itself. There is often an interfering in the former when there is
none in the latter. Thus, as to riches : so much money as a man
gives away, so much less will remain in his possession. Here is
a real interfering. But, though a man cannot possibly give with-
out lessening his fortune, yet there are multitudes might give
without lessening their own enjoyment, because they may have
more than they can turn to any real use or advantage to them-
selves. Thus, the more thought and time any one employs about
the interests and good of others, he must necessarily have less to
attend to his own ; but he may have so ready and large a supply
of his own wants that such thought might be really useless to him-
self, though of great service and assistance to others.

The occasion of the general mistake, that there is some greatei

BISHOP BUTLER.! SERMON UPON THE LOVE OF OUR NEIGHBOUR. 95

inconsistence between endeavouring to promote the good of an-
other and self-interest, than between self-interest and pursuing
anything else, is this, which hath been already hinted ; that men
consider the means and materials of enjoyment, not the enjoy-
ment of them, as what constitutes interest and happiness. It is
the possession, having the property of riches, houses, lands, gar-
dens, in which our interest or good is supposed to consist. Now,
if riches and happiness are identical terms, it may well be thought,
that, as by bestowing riches on another you lessen your own, so
also by promoting the happiness of another you lessen your own.
And thus there would be a real inconsistence and contrariety
between private and public good. But, whatever occasioned the
mistake, I hope it has been fully proved to be one.

And to all these things may be added, that religion is far from
disowning the principle of self-love, that on the contrary it ad-
dresseth itself to us in that state of mind when reason presides ;
and there can no access be had to the understanding, but by con-
vincing men that the course of life we would persuade them to is
for their interest. It may be allowed, without any prejudice to
the cause of virtue and religion, that our ideas of happiness and
misery are of all our ideas the nearest and most important to us, —
that they will, nay, if you please, that they ought to prevail over
those of order, and beauty, and harmony, and proportion, if there
should ever be, as it is impossible there ever should be, any in-
consistence between them : though these last two, as expressing
the fitness of actions, are real as truth itself. Let it be allowed,
though virtue or moral rectitude does indeed consist in affection
to and pursuit of what is right and good, as such, yet that, when
we sit down in a cool hour, we can neither justify to ourselves
this or any other pursuit, but from a conviction that it will be for
our happiness.

Common reason and humanity will have some influence upon
mankind, whatever becomes of speculations j but so far as the
interests of virtue depend upon the theory of it being secured
from open scorn, so far its very being in the world depends upon
its appearing to have no contrariety to private interest and self-

96 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BUTLER.

love. The foregoing observations, therefore, it is hoped, may
have gained a little ground in favour of the precept before us ;
the particular explanation of which shall be the subject of the
next discourse.

I will conclude at present with observing the peculiar obligation
which we are under to virtue and religion, as enforced in the
verses following the text, in the epistle for the day, from our
Saviour's coming into the world : — " The night is far spent, the
day is at hand ; let us therefore cast off the works of darkness,
and let us put on the armour of light," &c. The meaning and
force of which exhortation is, that Christianity lays us under new
obligations to a good life, as by it the will of God is more clearly
revealed, and as it affords additional motives to the practice of
it, over and above those which arise out of the nature of virtue
and vice ; I might add, as our Saviour has set us a perfect example
of goodness in our own nature. Now love and charity is plainly
the thing in which He hath placed His religion ; in which, there-
fore, as we have any pretence to the name of Christians, we must
place ours. He hath at once enjoined it upon us by way of com-
mand with peculiar force ; and by His example, as having under-
taken the work of our salvation out of pure love and good-will to
mankind. The endeavour to set home this example upon our
minds is a very proper employment of this season, which is
bringing on the festival of His birth ; which as it may teach us
many excellent lessons of humility, resignation, and obedience to
the will of God, so there is none it recommends with greater
authority, force, and advantage, than this of love and charity;
since it was " for us men, and for our salvation," that " He came
down from heaven, and was incarnate, and was made man," that
He might teach us our duty, and more especially that He might
enforce the practice of it, reform mankind, and finally bring us
to that " eternal salvation," of which " He is the Author to all
those that obey Him."

MUDIE. 1

THE BITTERN. .

198.— ®

MUDIE.

[ROBERT MUDIE, a voluminous writer of our own times, died in 1842, aged
64. He was a self-educated Scotsman, full of various knowledge, but that
knowledge not always of the most accurate character. As a writer, he was
singularly unequal ; which may be attributed to the constant pressure of his
circumstances, compelling him to be ready to employ his pen upon any sub-
ject, however unsuited to his taste or acquirements. He had been a diligent
observer of nature before he became familiar with the life of literary toil in
London ; and there are passages in some of his writings which exhibit the
same powers of the genuine naturalist that characterise the works of White
and Wilson. His " Guide to the Observation of Nature" contains a fund of
hints for the study of natural objects. No one can read the following extract
from his "Feathered Tribes of the British Islands" (and the work abounds
with passages of similar interest) without being satisfied that this man, ne-
glected as he was by his learned contemporaries, had a rare talent for observa-
tion, a vivid imagination, and a power of description that might have achieved
very high things, under circumstances more favourable for mental cultivation
and moral discipline than his lot afforded.]

The bittern is in many respects an interesting bird, but it is a
bird of the wilds — almost a bird of desolation, avoiding alike the
neighbourhood of man and the progress of man's improvements.

'VOL. III. G

98 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Muom.

It is a bird of rude nature, where the land knows no character
save that which the untrained working of the elements impresses
upon it ; so that, when any locality is in the course of being won
to usefulness, the bittern is the first to depart, and when any one
is abandoned it is the last to return. " The bittern shall dwell
there " is the final curse, and implies that the place is to become
uninhabited and uninhabitable. It hears not the whistle of the
ploughman or the sound of the mattock ; and the tinkle of the
sheep-bell or the lowing of an ox (although the latter bears so
much resemblance to its own hollow and dismal voice that it has
given foundation to the name) is a signal for it to be gone.

Extensive and dingy pools, — if moderately upland, so much the
better, — which lie in the hollows, catching like so many traps the
lighter and more fertile mould which the rains wash and the winds
blow from the naked heights around, and converting it into harsh
and dingy vegetation, and the pasture of those loathsome things
which mingle in the ooze, or crawl and swim in the putrid and
mantling waters, are the habitations of the bittern : places which
scatter blight and mildew over every herb which is more delicate
than a sedge, a carex, or a rush, and consume every wooded
plant that is taller than the sapless and tasteless crowberry, or the
creeping upland willow ; which shed murrain over the quadrupeds,
or chills which eat the flesh off their bones ; and which, if man
ventures there, consume him by putrid fever in the hot and dry
season, and shake to pieces with ague when the weather is cold
and humid : — places from which the heath and the lichen stand
aloof, and where even the raven, lover of disease, and battener
upon all that expires miserably and exhausted, comes rarely, and
with more than wonted caution, lest that death which he comes
to seal or riot upon in others, should unawares come upon him-
self. The raven loves carrion on the dry and unpoisoning moor,
scents it from afar, and hastens to it upon his best and boldest
wing; but "the reek o' the rotten fen" is loathsome to the sense
of even the raven, and it is hunger's last pinch ere he come nigh
to the chosen habitation, — the only loved abode, of the bittern.

The bittern appears as if it hated the beams of that sun which

MUDIE.] THE BITTERN. OO

calls forth the richness and beauty of nature which it so studiously
avoids ; for, though with anything but music, it hails the fall of
night with as much energy, and no doubt, to its own feeling, with
as much glee and joy as the birds of brighter places hail the rising
of the morn. Altogether it is a singular bird ; and yet there is a
sublimity about it of a more heart-stirring character than that
which is to be found where the air is balmy and the vegetation
rich, and nature keeps holiday in holiday attire. It is a bird of
the confines beyond which we can imagine nothing but utter ruin ;
and all subjects which trench on that terrible bourn have a deep
though a dismal interest.

And, to those who are nerved and sinewed for the task, the
habitation of the bittern is well worthy of a visit, not merely as it
teaches us how much we owe to the successive parent generations
that subdued those dismal places, and gradually brought the
country to that state of richness and beauty in which we found it,
but also on account of the extreme of contrast, and the discovery
of that singular charm and enchantment with which nature is in
all cases so thoroughly imbued and invested ; so that where man
cannot inhabit, he must still admire ; and even there he can trace
the plan, adore the power, and bless the goodness of that Being
in whose sight all the works of the creation are equally good.

On a fine clear day in the early part of the season, when the
winds of March have dried the heath,' and the dark surface,
obedient to the action of the sun, becomes soon warm and turns
the exhalations which steal from the marsh upwards, so that they
are dissipated in the higher atmosphere, and cross not that
boundary to injure the more fertile and cultivated places — even
the sterile heath and the stagnant pool, though adverse to our
cultivation, have their uses in wild nature ; but for these, in a
climate like ours, and. in the absence of nature, the chain of life
would speedily be broken.

Upon such a day, it. is not unpleasant to ramble toward the
abode of the bittern, and, to those especially who dwell where all
around is art, and where the tremulous motion of the ever-trund-
ling wheel of society dizzies- the understanding, till one fancies

TOO HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MCDIE.

that the stable laws of nature turn round in concert with the
minor revolutions of our pursuits, it is far from being unprofitable.
Man, so circumstanced, is apt to descend in intellect as low, or
even lower, than those unclad men $f the woods whom he
despises ; and there is no better way of enabling him to win back
his birthright as a rational and reflective being, than a taste of
the cup of wild nature, even though its acerbity should make him
writhe at the time. That is the genuine medicine of the mind,
far better than all the opiates of the library, and the bounding
pulse of glowing and glorious thought returns all the sooner for
its being a little drastic.

None perhaps acts more speedily than a taste of the sea. Take
a man who has never been beyond the " hum " of the city, or the
chime of the village clock, and whose thoughts float along with
the current of public news in the one, or stagnate in the lazy pool
of village chancings in the other, put him on shipboard on a fine
evening, when the glassy water has that blink of greenish purple
which landsmen admire, and seamen understand ; give him offing
till the turn of the night ; then let the wind be loosed at once,
and the accumulating waves heave fathoms up and sink fathoms
down; let there be sea-room, and trim the bark to drive, now
vibrating on the ridge of the unbroken wave, now plunging into
the thick of that which has been broken by its own violence,
and hissing as if the heat of her career and collision were making
the ocean to boil, as when the nether fire upheaves a volcanic
isle ; temper his spirit in those waters for even one night, and
when you again land him safely you will find him tenfold more
a man of steel.

A calm day in the wilderness is, of course, mildness itself com-
pared with such a night ; but still there is an absence of art, and
consequently a touch of the sublime of nature in it ; it suits the
feeble-minded, for it invigorates without fear.

The dry height is silent, save the chirp of the grasshopper, or
the hum of some stray bee which the heat of the day has tempted
out, to see if there are any honeyed blooms among the heath ;
but, by and by, you hear the warning whistle of the plover,

MUDIE.] THE BITTERN. IOI

sounded perhaps within a few yards of your feet, but so singularly
inward and ventriloque, that you fancy it comes from miles off;
the lapwing soon comes at the call, playing and wailing around
your head, and quits you not till you are so near the marshy ex-
panse that your footing is heavy, and the ground quakes and
vibrates under your feet. That is not much to be heeded if you
keep the line of the rushes, for a thick tuft of these sturdy plants
makes a safe footfall in any bog. You may now perhaps start
the twite, but it will utter its peevish chirp, and jerk off; and if
there is a stream with banks of some consistency, you may see
the more lively wagtail, which will jerk, and run, and flirt about,
as if showing off for your especial amusement. If there is a
wide portion of clear water, you may perhaps see the wild-duck,
with her young brood, sailing out of the reeds, like a vessel
of war leading the fleet which she protects ; or, if the pool is
smaller, you may see the brown and yellow of the snipe gliding
through the herbage on the margin, as if it were a snake in the
grass. Not a wing will stir, however, or a creature take much
heed of your presence, after the lapwing wails her farewell.

In the tuft of tall and close herbage, not very far from the firm
ground, but yet so placed near, or rather in the water, that you
cannot very easily reach it, the bittern may be close all the time,
wakeful, noting you well, and holding herself prepared to " keep
her castle," but you cannot raise her by shouting, or even by
throwing stones, the last of which is treason against nature, in a
place solely under nature's dominion. Wait till the sun is down,
and the last glimmer of the twilight has got westward of the
zenith, and then return to the place where you expect the bird.

The reeds begin to rustle with the little winds, in which the
day settles accounts with the night ; but there is a shorter and a
sharper rustle, accompanied by the brush of rather a powerful
wing. You look round the dim horizon, but there is no bird ;
another rustle of the wing, and another, still weaker, and weaker,
but not a moving thing between you and the sky around. You
feel rather disappointed — foolish, if you are daring ; fearful, if you
are timid. Anon, a burst of uncouth and savage laughter breaks

102 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Mrore.

over you, piercingly, or rather gratingly loud, and so unwonted
and odd, that it sounds as if the voices of a bull and a horse were
combined, the former breaking down his bellow to suit the neigh
of the latter, in mocking you from the sky.

That is the love-song of the bittern, with which he serenades
his mate ; and, uncouth and harsh as it sounds to you, that mate
hears it with far more pleasure than she would the sweetest chorus
of the grove ; and when the surprise with which you are at first
taken is over, you begin to discover that there is a sort of modu-
lation in the singular sound. As the bird utters it, he wheels in
a spiral, expanding his voice as the loops widen, and sinking it
as they close ; and though you can just dimly discover him be-
tween you and the zenith, it is worth while to lie down on your
back, and watch the style of his flight, which is as fine as it is
peculiar. The sound comes better out, too, when you are in that
position ; and there is an echo, and, as you would readily ima-
gine, a shaking of the ground ; not that, according to the tale of
the poets, the bird thrusts his bill into the marsh, and shakes that
with his booming, though (familiar as I once was for years with
the sound, and all the observable habits of the bitterns) some
kindly critic on a former occasion laboured to convert me from
that heresy. A quagmire would be but a sorry instrument, even
for a bittern's music; but when the bittern booms and bleats
overhead, one certainly feels as if the earth were shaking ; but it
is probably nothing more than the general affection of the sentient
system by the jarring upon the ear — an affection which we more
or less feel in the case of all harsh and grating sounds, more
especially when they are new to us.

The length of the bird is about twenty-eight inches, and the
extent of the wings about forty-four. It is heavier in proportion
to the extent of the wings than the heron ; and though it flies
more steadily than that bird, it is not very powerful in forward
flight, or in gaining height without wheeling ; but when once it is
up, it can keep the sky with considerable ease ; and while it does
so, it is safe from the buzzards and harriers, which are the chief
birds of prey in its locality.

MUDIE.] THE BITTERN. lo-.

The nest is constructed by both birds, in a close tuft or bush
near by, and sometimes over, the water, but always more elevated
than the flood. Indeed, as it builds early, about the time of the
spring rains, which bring it abundance of food, in frogs, snails,
worms, and the fry of fishes, it has the flood higher at the time of
commencing the nest than it is likely to be during the incubation.
The nest is constructed wholly of vegetable matter— rushes, the
leaves of reeds, and those of the stronger marsh grasses. The
eggs are four or five, of a greenish brown colour ; the incubation
lasts about twenty-five days, and three weeks more elapse before
the young are fit for leaving the nest. When they break the
shell, they are callow, and have a scraggy appearance ; but they
are laboriously fed by the parents, and acquire better forms at
the same time that they gain their plumage.

The bittern is both a solitary and a peaceful bird ; and, ex-
cepting the small fishes, reptiles, and other little animals on which
it feeds, it offers harm to nothing, animal or vegetable. Unless
when the male booms and bleats, or rather bellows and neighs
his rude song, the birds are seldom heard, and not often seen,
unless sometimes in the severe weather, when they are frozen out,
and descend lower down the country in quest of food. They
keep in their rushy tents as long as the weather is open, and they
can by their long and powerful bills find their food among the
roots of these ; and they probably also in part subsist upon the
seeds, or even the albuminous roots, of some of the aquatic plants;
but their feet, which are adapted for rough and spongy surfaces,
do not hold well on the ice ; at all events, in the places where I
used to know them, when the interstices of the plants and the
margins of the pools were so far frozen that they would bear, and
the wild goose had been driven from more northern haunts by
the severity of the weather, the bitterns were not to be found by
the most diligent search in the withered tufts, though, if they had
the habit of converting the earth into a musical instrument, these
would be the times at which it would sound the best. On their
departure from the upland moors, they proceed gradually and
skulkingly by the margins of the streams to the lower swamps and

104 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS [MuoiE.

marshes, where, from the warmer climate and the thicker mantle
of dry vegetables, the frost is much longer in taking effect.

Though the bittern is an unoffending and retiring bird, easily
hawked when on a low flight, and not very difficult to shoot when
out of its cover, as it flies short and soon alights, it is both a
vigilant and a powerful bird on the ground. It stands high, so
that, without being seen, it sees all around it, and is not easily
surprised. Its bill, too, is so strong yet so sharp, and the thrust
of it is given with so much rapidity and effect, that other animals
are not very fond of going in upon it ; and even when it is wounded
it will make a very determined resistance, throwing itself on its
back, so that it may use both its bill and its claws.

It would not be very consistent to regret the diminished and
diminishing numbers of the bittern, a bird which, wherever it
appears, proclaims that there the resources of the country are
running to waste ; for such is the indication given by the bird.
It is not an indication of hopeless sterility. It does not inhabit
the naked height on which the fertilising rain not only falls with-
out producing fertility, but washes away the small quantity oi
mould which the few starveling plants produce. The elements
of a more profitable crop are always in existence in the abode of
the bittern ; and, though the quantity of skill and labour required
from man varies much, those elements can always to a certain
extent be claimed to man's use. The place where I used to hear
the bittern every evening during the first month after the storm
broke, for it began before the short supplemental winter, the
fleeting storm of flaking snow which used to season the lapwing,
has been in great part under crop for years. Where that is not
the case, it has been planted ; and the partridge and the ring-
dove have come close upon the margin of what remains of the
mere. The winding stream — " the burnie wimplin doon the
glen," with its little daisied meadows, its primrosed banks, its
tangled thickets, its dimpling pools, and its dark nooks, each
having a name, and altogether clear to trout, to bird, and to boy-
hood, has become a straight ditch between bushless banks, and
runs so low and shallow in the dry season, as hardly to have

HAWTHORNE.] A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. I0e

depth for the minnow and the stickle-back, and the very tadpoles
lie stranded, dead, and dry, by the little runs of sand. There
might be more breadth in the country ; but to me, at least, there
seemed to be, in every sense of the word, less depth. The crops,
too, were thin and stunted, and the domestic beasts which were
nibbling among the stems of the scattered ray-grass, which looked
very like a thin bristling of copper wire, had certainly as many
and as easily counted bones as the smaller breed which were
wont to roam at freedom over the moor. To me, the plaint of
the dove brought more of melancholy than the booming of fifty
bitterns, even with the gloom of the twilight, and a lingering dread
of beings of the darkness to boot. But change is the course of
nature, and the foundation of art ; and in all places, under all
circumstances, mars janua vitce.

199.— |, pGI from ifr* Cater f ump.

HAWTHORNE.

[NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, the American writer, was born about 1807,
and died in 1864. He was the author of several volumes of Tales and Essays.]

(Scene — The corner of two principal Streets. The Town Pump talking throtigh

its nose. )

Noon, by the north clock ! Noon, by the east ! High noon,
too, by these hot sun-beams, which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my
head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough
under my nose. Truly we public characters have a tough time
of it ! And among all the town officers, chosen at March meet-
ing, where is he that sustains, for a single year, the burden of
such manifold duties as are imposed, in perpetuity, upon the
Town Pump] The title of "town treasurer" is rightfully mine,
as guardian of the best treasure that the town has. The overseers
of the poor ought to make me their chairman, since I provide
bountifully for the pauper, without expense to him that pays taxes.
I am at the head of the fire department, and one of the physicians

106 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HAWTHORNE.

to the Board of Health. As a keeper of the peace, all water-
drinkers will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some
of the duties of the town clerk, by promulgating public notices,
when they are pasted on my front. To speak within bounds, I
am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, moreover,
an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady,
upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business, and
the constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter,
nobody seeks me in vain ; for, all day long, I am seen at the
busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to
rich and poor alike ; and at night, I hold a lantern over my head,
both to show where I am, and keep people out of the gutters.

At this sultry noontide I am cupbearer to the parched populace,
for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like
a dram-seller on the mall, at muster-day, I cry aloud to all and
sundry in my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice,
Here it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor ! Walk up, walk
up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up ! Here is the superior stuff !
Here is the unadulterated ale of father Adam — better than Cog-
nac, Hollands, Jamacia, strong beer, or wine of any price, here it
is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay !
Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves !

It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers.
Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen ! Quaff, and away
again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice cool sweat. You, my
friend, will need another cupful, to wash the dust out of your
throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cow-hide shoes. I
see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day ; and, like
a wise man. have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the
running brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without
and a fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or
melted down to nothing at all in the fashion of a jelly fish. Drink,
and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench
the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from no
cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have
been great strangers hitherto ; nor, to express the truth, will my

HAWTHORNE.] A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. JQ;

nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your
breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the water
absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite
to steam, in the miniature Tophet which you mistake for a
stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest
toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop,
spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious ?
Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavour of
cold water. Good-bye ; and, whenever you are thirsty, remember
that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next 1 Oh,
my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither
to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain
taps of the ferule, and other school-boy troubles, in a draught
from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your
young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be
scorched with a fiercer thirst than now ! There, my dear child,
put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman,
who treads so tenderly over the stones, that I suspect he is afraid
of breaking them. What ! he limps by without so much as thank-
ing me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who
have no wine-cellars. Well, well, sir — no harm done, I hope !
Go, draw the cork, tip the decanter ; but when your great toe
shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen
love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town
Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not
scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and laps eagerly
out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again. Jowler,
did your worship ever have the gout 1

Are you all satisfied ? Then wipe you mouths, my good friends ;
and while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the
town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity, be-
neath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled
out of the leaf-strown earth, in the very spot where you now be-
hold me on the sunny pavement. The water was as bright and
clear, and deemed as precious as liquid diamonds. The Indian
Sagamores drank of it from time immemorial, till the fearful

I08 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HAWTHORNE.

deluge of fire-water burst upon the red men, and swept their whole
race away from the cold fountains. Endicott and his followers
came next, and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long
beards in the spring. The richest goblet then was of birch bark.
Governor Winthrop, after a journey afoot from Boston, drank
here, out of the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here
wet his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town-born child.
For many years it was the watering-place, and, as it were, the
wash-bowl of the vicinity, — whither all decent folks resorted, to
purify their visages and gaze at them afterwards — at least the
pretty maidens did — in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath
days, whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his
basin here, and placed it on the communion table of the humble
meeting-house, which partly covered the site of yonder stately
brick one. Thus one generation after another was consecrated
to heaven by its waters, and cast their waxing and waning sha-
dows into its glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if
mortal life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, the
fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all sides, and cart-
loads of gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid
stream, forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two streets. In
the hot months, when its refreshment was most needed, the dust
flew in clouds over the forgotten birth-place of the waters, now
their grave. But, in the course of time, a town-pump was sunk
into the source of the ancient spring ; and when the first decayed,
another took its place — and then another, and still another — till
here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron
goblet. Drink, and be refreshed ! The water is pure and cold
as that which slaked the thirst of the red Sagamore beneath the
aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured
under these hot stones, where no shadow falls but from the brick
buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, as the wasted
and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so shall
the virtues of cold water, too little valued since your fathers' days,
be recognized by all.

Your pardon, good people ; I must interrupt my stream of

HAWTHORNE.] A RTLL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. IOA

eloquence and spout forth a stream of water, to replenish the
trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come
from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No part of my
business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look ! how
rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the trough, till
their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two
a-piece, and .they can afford time to breathe it in, with sighs of
calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim
of their monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper.

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the
remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no de-
fect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as
my own multifarious merits. It is altogether for your good. The
better you think of me the better men and women will you find
yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all-important aid on wash-
ing-days : though, on that account alone, I might call myself the
household god of a hundred families. Far be it from me also to
hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces which you
would present without my pains to keep you clean. Nor will I
remind you how often, when the midnight bells make you tremble
for your combustible town, you have fled to the Town Pump, and
found me always at my post, firm amid the confusion, and ready
to drain my vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth
while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma, as
the physician whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the
nauseous lore which has found men sick, or left them so, since
the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my
beneficial influence on mankind.

No ; these are trifles compared with the merits which wise men
concede to me — if not in my single self, yet as the representative
of a class — of being the grand reformer of the age. From my
spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall
cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish,
which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. In this
mighty enterprise the cow shall be my great confederate. Milk
and water! The Tcwn Pump and the Cow! Such is the

110 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HAWTHORNE.

glorious co-partnership that shall tear down the distilleries and
brew-houses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin
the tea and coffee trade, and finally monopolise the whole busi-
ness of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! Then,
Poverty shall pass away from the land, find no hovel so wretched,
where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then disease, for lack
of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then Sin,
if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now,
the frenzy of hereditary fever has raged in the human blood,
transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in every generation,
by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire shall be
extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war
— the drunkenness of nations — perhaps will cease. At least,
there will be no war of households. The husband and wife,
drinking deep of peaceful joy — a calm bliss of temperate affec-
tions— shall pass hand and hand through life, and lie down, not
reluctantly, at its protracted close. To them, the past will be no
turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments
as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall
express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering
smile of memory and hope.

Ahem ! Dry work, this speechifying ; especially to an unprac-
tised orator. I never conceived, till now, what toil the temper-
ance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have
the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a
stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir ! My dear
hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated by my in-
strumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor casks
into one great pile, and make a bonfire in honour of the Town
Pump. And when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors,
then, if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculp-
tured, take my place upon the spot. Such monuments should be
erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names of the distin-
guished champions of my cause. Now listen; for something
very important is to come next. .

There are two or three honest friends of mine — and true

COLERIDGE.] THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Ill

friends I know they are — who, nevertheless, by their fiery pug-
nacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful hazard of a broken nose,
or even a total overthrow upon the pavement, and the loss of the
treasure which I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be
amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with zeal for tem-
perance, and take up the honourable cause of the Town Pump,
in the style of a toper fighting for his brandy bottle ? Or can the
excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise exemplified than
by plunging, slap dash, into hot water, and woefully scalding
yourself and other people 1 Trust me, they may. In the moral
warfare which you are to wage — and indeed in the whole conduct
of your lives — you cannot choose a better example than myself,
who have never permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the
turbulent and manifold disquietudes of the world around me, to
reach that deep calm well of purity, which may be called my soul.
And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to cool earth's fever, or
cleanse its stains.

One o'clock ! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, I
may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of
my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May
she draw a husband, while drawing her water, as Rachel did of
old ! Hold out your vessel, my dear ! There it is, full to the
brim ; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the
pitcher as you go ; and forget not, in a glass of my own liquor, to
drink " SUCCESS TO THE TOWN PUMP ! J>

200.— g;^ giro* of % Qntuni gtemtr. § l.

COLERIDGE.

PART I. " The Bridegroom's doors are open'd

IT is an ancient mariner, wide,

And he stoppeth one of three, And I am next of kin ;

" By thy long gray beard and glitter- The guests are met, the feast is

ing eye, set.

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? " Mayst hear the merry din."

112

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE

He holds him with a skinny hand :
"There was a ship," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard

loon !"
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The wedding-guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child :
The mariner hath his will.

The wedding-guest sat on a stone :
He cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner :

The ship was cheer'd, the harbour

clear'd,

Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he !
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon —
The wedding-guest here beat his

breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she ;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner:

And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong :

He struck with his o'ertaking \rings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping

prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the

blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and

snow,

And it grew wondrous cold :
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen :

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we

ken—
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around :

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd

and howl'd,
Like noises in a swound !

At length did cross an albatross,
Thorough the fog it came ;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hail'd it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew ;
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ;
The helmsman steer'd us through !

And a good south wind sprung up

behind ;

The albatross did follow;
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo.

COLERIDGE.] THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

In mist or cloud, or mast or shroud,
It perch' d for vespers nine :
"Whiles all the night, through fog-
smoke white,
Glimmer'd the white moonshine.

" God save thee, ancient mariner,
From the fiends that plague thee

thus ! —
Why look'st thou so?"— With my

cross-bow
I shot the albatross !

PART II.

The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew

behind,

But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo.

And I had done a hellish thing,.

And it would work 'em woe :

For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay

That made the breeze to blow !

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head
The glorious Sun uprist :
Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
'Twas right, said they, such birds to

slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam

flew,

The furrow follow'd free ;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
VOL. III.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails

dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea !

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be !
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout,
The death-fires danced at night,
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.

And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so ;
Nine fathom deep he had follow'd

us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter

drought,

Was wither'd at the root ;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLBRIDGK.

Instead of the cross, the albatross
About my neck was hung.

PART III.

There pass'd a weary time. Each

throat

Was parch'd, and glazed each eye.
A weary time ! a weary time !
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward I beheld
A something in the sky.

At first it seem'd a little speck,
And then it seem'd a mist ;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near'd and near'd;
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd.

With throats unslak'd, with black lips

baked,

We could not laugh nor wail ;
Through utter drought all dumb we

stood!

I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslak'd, with black lips

baked,

Agape they heard me call :
Grammercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more !
Hither to work us weal ;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all aflame,
The day was well-nigh done ;
Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright Sun ;
When that strange shape drove sud-
denly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was fleck'd with

bars

(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he

peer'd
With broad and burning face,

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat

loud,)

How fast she nears and nears !
Are those her sails that glance in the

Sun,
Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the

Sun

Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The night-mare Life-in-Death was

she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice ;
" The game is done! I've won, I've

won!"
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush

out;

At one stride comes the dark ;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the

sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

COLERIDGE.]

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

We listen'd and looked sideways up !
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seem'd to sip !
The stars were dim, and thick the

night,
The steersman's face by his lamp

gleam'd white ;

From the sails the dew did drip —
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horn'd Moon, with one bright

star
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogg'd

Moon,

Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turn'd his face with a ghastly

pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan,)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropp'd down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly, —
They fled to bliss or woe !
And every soul, it pass'd me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow !

PART IV.

"I fear thee, ancient mariner!

I fear thy skinny hand!

And thou art long, and lank, and

brown,
As is the ribb'd sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand so brown." —
Fear not, fear not, thou wedding

guest !
This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea !

And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men so beautiful I

And they all dead did lie :

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on ; and so did I.

I look'd upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I look'd upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

I look'd to heaven, and tried to

pray;

But, or ever a prayer had gush'd
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat ;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea

and the sky,

Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their

limbs,

Nor rot nor reek did they ;
The look with which they look'd on

me
Had never pass'd away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high ;
But oh ! more terrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man's eye !
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that

curse,
And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide :
Softly she was going up
And a star or two beside.

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread;

And, where the ship's huge shadow

lay,

The charm'd water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship

I watch'd the water-snakes :

They moved in tracks of shining

white,

And when they rear'd, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watch'd their rich attire :

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coil'd and swam; and every

track
Was a flash of golden fire.'

Oh, happy living things ! no tongue

Their beauty might declare :

A spring of love gush'd from my heart,

And I bless'd them unaware :

Sure my kind saint took pity on nie,

And I bless'd them unaware.

The selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

201.—

of % Qntmii

§ 2.

PART V.

0 SLEEP ! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole !

To Maiy Queen the praise be given !
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remain'd,

1 dreamt that they were fill'd with
dew;

And when I awoke, it rain'd.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

COLERIDGE.

And soon I heard a roaring wind :
It did not come anear :
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life !
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more

loud,

And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain pour'd down from one

black cloud;
The Moon was at its edge.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : The thick black cloud was cleft, and

I was so light — almost still

I thought that I had died in sleep, The Moon was at its side :

And was a blessed ghost. Like waters shot from some high crag,

COLERIDGE.] THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reach'd the ship
Yet how the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
The dead men gave a groan.

They groan' d, they stirr'd, they all

uprose,

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes :
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steer' d, the ship moved

on;

Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do ;
They raised their limbs like lifeless

tools —
We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pull'd at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

"I fear thee, ancient mariner!" —
Be calm, thou wedding-guest!
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their courses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest :

For when it dawn'd — they dropp'd

their arms,

And cluster' d round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through

their mouths,
And from their bodies pass'd.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mix'd, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky,
I heard the sky-lark sing ;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seem'd to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning !

And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon :

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sail'd on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe :
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid : and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fix'd her to the ocean :
But in a minute she 'gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion —
Backwards and forwards half her

length
With a short uneasy motion.

Then, like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound ;
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare ;

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.

But ere my living life return'd,
I heard, and in my soul discern' d,
Two voices in the air.

" Is it he ? " quoth one, " Is this the

man?

By Him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid fall low
The harmless albatross.

" The spirit who bideth by himself

In the land of mist and snow,

He loved the bird that loved the

man
Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey-dew :

Quoth he, " The man hath penance

done,
And penance more will do."

PART VI.

First Voice.

But tell me, tell me ! speak again,
Thy soft response renewing —
What makes that ship drive on so

fast—
What is the ocean doing ?

Second Voice.

Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast ;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast —

If he may know which way to go ;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see ! how graciously
She looketh down on him.

First Voice.

But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind ?

Second Voice.

The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more

high!

Or we shall be belated :
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the mariner's trance is abated.

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather :

'Twas night, calm night, the Moon

was high ;
The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter :
All fix'd on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they

died,

Had never pass'd away :
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt : once

I view'd the ocean green,
And look'd far north, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen —

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn'd round walks

on,

And turns no more his head ;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breath' d a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made :
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

COLERIDGE.]

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

119

It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring —
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sail'd softly too :
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze —
On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see ?
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree ?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar
And I with sobs did pray —
Oh let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no

less,

That stands above the rock ;
The moonlight steep'd in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent

light,

Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows

were,
In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were :
I turn'd my eyes upon the deck —
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there !

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat :
And, by the holy rood !

A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood !

This seraph-band, each waved his hand ;
It was a heavenly sight !
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light :

This seraph-band, each waved his hand ;
No voice did they impart —
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilot's cheer ;
My head was turn'd perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

The pilot and the pilot's boy,
I heai-d them coming fast -;
Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third — I heard*his voice:

It is the hermit good !

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away

The albatross's blood.

PART VII.

This hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears !
He loves to talk with mariners
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve —
He hath a cushion plump :
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak stump.

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk :
" Why, this is strange, I trow !
Where are those lights, so many and fair,
That signal made but now ?"

120

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.

" Strange, by my faith! " the hermit

said —

" And they answer'd not our cheer!
The planks look warp'd! and see

those sails,

How thin they are and sere !
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lay
My forest-brook along :
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf

below,
That eats the she-wolf's young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish

look—

(The pilot made reply),
I am a-feared" — " Push on, push on! "
Said the hermit cheerily.

The boat came «loser to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirr'd ;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread :
It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful

sound,

Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hat'i been seven days

drown'd

My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams myself I found
Within the pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round :
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips — the pilot shriek'd
And fell down in a fit ;
The holy hermit raised his eyes,
And pray'd where he did sit.

I took the oars: the pilot's boy, —
Who now doth crazy go, —
Laugh'd loud and long, and all the

while

His eyes went to and fro.
"Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I

see,
The devil knows how to row."

And now all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land!

The hermit stepp'd forth from the

boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

" Oh shrieve me, shrieve me, holy

man ! "

The hermit cross'd his brow,
" Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee

say-
What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was

wrench'd

With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
Thai, agony returns;
And, till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to

land;

I have strange power of speech ;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear

me:
To him my tale I teach.

WM. PENN.]

ADVICE TO HIS FAMILY.

121

What loud uproar bursts from that

door!

The wedding-guests are there :
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are :
And hark the little vesper-bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer !

O wedding-guest ! this soul hath

been

Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself,
Scarce seem'd there to be.

Oh, sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company ! —

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father
bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell ; but this I tell
To thee, thou wedding-guest !
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone ; and now the wedding-guest
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath

stunn'd,

And is of sense forlorn :
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.

been

202.—

10 fns

WILLIAM PENN.

[IN a preceding article, No. 188, we have exhibited the views of an
American writer upon the opinions of William Penn. It appears to us that the
philosophical theories of Mr Bancroft have led him to speak of the doctrines of
John Locke, which he contrasts with those of Penn, in a manner which scarcely
does justice to the love of truth and freedom which characterise the author of
the " Essay on the Human Understanding." But be this as it may, Penn, the
illustrious founder of Pennsylvania, was a man worthy to be held in reverence,
although some parts of his political conduct, in an age of corruptness and sub-
serviency, have been attacked by a great writer. He was the only son of Sir
William Penn, a distinguished admiral; was born in 1634; received an ex-
cellent education, but disappointed the ambitious hopes of his father by his
determined adherence to the new doctrines of the Society of Friends. After
a variety of persecutions, which he bore with exemplary courage and patience,
he obtained from Charles II. a grant of country on the west side of the Dela-
ware, in consideration of a public debt due to his father. His Treaty with the

122 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [WM. PENN.

Indians, and his Code for the government of his province, are familiar to all.
He returned to England, and died in 1718. Previous to his embarkation for
America, he addressed a letter to his wife and children, which is highly charac-
teristic of the simplicity and piety of the man.]

MY DEAR WIFE AND CHILDREN —

My love, which neither sea, nor land, nor death itself, can ex-
tinguish or lessen toward you, most endearingly visits you with
eternal embraces and will abide with you for ever ; and may the
God of my life watch over you, and bless you, and do you good in
this world and for ever ! — Some things are upon my spirit to leave
with you in your respective capacities, as I am to one a husband
and to the rest a father, if I should never see you more in this
world.

My dear wife ! Remember thou wast the love of my youth, and
much the joy of my life ; the most beloved as well as most worthy
of all my earthly comforts ; and the reason of that love was
more thy inward than thy outward excellences, which yet were
many. God knows, and thou knowest it, I can say it was a
match of Providence's making; and God's image in us both
was the first thing, and the most amiable and engaging ornament
in our eyes. Now I am to leave thee, and that without knowing
whether I shall ever see thee more in this world, take my counsel
into thy bosom, and let it dwell with thee in my stead while
thou livest.

[After some counsel relative to godliness and economy, he pro-
ceeds : — ]

And now,, my dearest, let me recommend to thy care my dear
children ; abundantly beloved of me, as the Lord's blessings, and
the sweet pledges of our mutual and endeared affection. Above
all things endeavour to breed them up in the love of virtue, and
that holy plain way of it which we have lived in, that the world
in no part of it get into my family. I had rather they were
homely than finely bred as to outward behaviour \ yet I love
sweetness mixed with gravity, and cheerfulness tempered with
sobriety. Religion in the heart leads into this true civility, teach-

WM. PENN.] ADVICE TO HIS FAMILY. 123

ing men and women to be mild and courteous in their behaviour ;
an accomplishment worthy indeed of praise.

Next breed them up in love one of another ; tell them it is the
charge I left behind me ; and that it is the way to have the love
and blessing of God upon them. Sometimes separate them, but
not long; and allow them to send and give each other small
things to endear one another with.

Once more I say, tell them it was my counsel they should be
tender and affectionate one to another. For their learning be
liberal. Spare no cost ; for by such parsimony all is lost that is
saved ; but let it be useful knowledge, such as is consistent with
truth and godliness, not cherishing a vain conversation or idle
mind ; but ingenuity mixed with industry is good for the body
and the mind too. I recommend the useful parts of mathematics,
as building houses or ships, measuring, surveying, dialling, navi-
gation ; but agriculture is especially in my eye ; let my children
be husbandmen and housewives ; it is industrious, healthy, honest,
and of good example : like Abraham and the holy ancients, who
pleased God, and obtained a good report. This leads to con-
sider the works of God and nature, of things that are good, and
diverts the mind from being taken up with the vain arts and in-
ventions of a luxurious world. Rather keep an ingenious person
in the house to teach them, than send them to schools, too many
evil impressions being commonly received there. Be sure to
observe their genius, and do not cross it as to learning ; let them
not dwell too long on one thing ; but let their change be agree-
able, and all their diversions have some little bodily labour in
them. When grown big, have most care for them ; for then
there are more snares both within and without. When marriage-
able, see that they have worthy persons in their eye, of good life,
and good fame for piety and understanding. I need no wealth,
but sufficiency : and be sure their love be dear, fervent, and
mutual, that it may be happy for them. I choose not they should
be married to earthly covetous kindred ; and of cities and towns
of concourse beware ; the world is apt to stick close to those
who have lived and got wealth there : a country life and estate I

124 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WM. PENN.

like best for my children. I prefer a decent mansion, of an
hundred pounds per annum, before ten thousand pounds in Lon-
don, or such like place, in a way of trade.

[He next addresses himself to his children.]

Be obedient to your dear mother, a woman whose virtue and
good name is an honour to you ; for she hath been exceeded by
none in her time for her integrity, humanity, virtue, and good
understanding ; qualities not usual among women of her worldly
condition and quality. Therefore honour and obey her, my dear
children, as your mother, and your father's love and delight ; nay,
love her too, for she loved your father with a deep and upright
love, choosing him before all her many suitors : and though she
be of a delicate constitution and noble spirit, yet she descended
to the utmost tenderness and care for you, performing the pain-
fullest acts of service to you in your infancy, as a mother and a
nurse too. I charge you, before the Lord, honour and obey,
love and cherish, your dear mother.

Next : betake yourselves to some honest industrious course of
life, and that not of sordid covetousness, but for example and to
avoid idleness. And if you change your condition and marry,
choose, with the knowledge and consent of your mother if living,
or of guardians, or those that have the charge of you. Mind
neither beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet
and amiable disposition, such as you can love above all this
world, and that may make your habitations pleasant and desir-
able to you. And being married, be tender, affectionate, patient,
and meek. Be sure to live within compass ; borrow not, neither
be beholden to any. Ruin not yourself by kindness to others ;
for that exceeds the due bounds of friendship ; neither will a true
friend expect it. Small matters I heed not.

[After a great number of other affectionate counsels, he turns
particularly to his elder boys.]

And as for you, who are likely to be concerned in the govern-
ment of Pennsylvania, I do charge you before the Lord God and
His holy angels, that you be lowly, diligent, and tender, fearing
God, loving the people, and hating covetousness. Let justice

COWPER.] COWPER'S TAME HARES. 125

have its impartial course, and the law free passage. Though to
your loss, protect no man against it ; for you are not above the
law, but the law above you. Live therefore the lives yourselves
you would have the people live, and then you have right and
boldness to punish the transgressor. Keep upon the square, for
God sees you : therefore do your duty, and be sure you see with
your own eyes, and hear with your own ears. Entertain no lur-
chers ; cherish no informers for gain or revenge ; use no tricks ;
fly to no devices to support or cover injustice ; but let your
hearts be upright before the Lord, trusting in Him above the
contrivances of men, and none shall be able to hurt or supplant.

[He concludes as follows : — ]

Finally, my children, love one another with a true endeared
love, and your dear relations on both sides, and take care to pre-
serve tender affection in your children to each other, often marry-
ing within themselves, so as to be without the bounds forbidden
in God's law, that so they may not, like the forgetting unnatural
world, grow out of kindred and as cold as strangers ; but, as be-
comes a truly natural and Christian stock, you and yours after
you, may live in the pure and fervent love of God towards one
another, as becometh brethren in the spiritual and natural re-
lation.

So farewell to my thrice dearly beloved wife and children !

Yours, as God pleaseth, in that which no waters can quench,
no time forget, nor distance wear away, but remains for ever,

WILLIAM PENN.

Wormingh urst.
Fourth of Sixth Month, 1682.

203.— Cofopr's Cmrn fans*

[THE following account of the treatment of his hares was inserted by the
poet Cowper in the "Gentleman's Magazine:" — ]

In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind and
body, incapable of diverting myself either with company or books,

126 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COWPER.

and yet in a condition that made some diversion necessary, I was
glad of anything that would engage my attention, without fatigu-
ing it. The children of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given
them for a plaything ; it was at that time about three months old.
Understanding better how to tease the poor creature than to feed
it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they readily con-
sented that their father, who saw it pining and growing leaner
every day, should offer it to my acceptance. I was willing enough
to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving that, in the
management of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I
should find just that sort of employment which my case required.
It was soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased with
the present, and the consequence was that in a short time I had
as many leverets offered to me as would have stocked a paddock.
I undertook the care of three, which it is necessary that I should
here distinguish by the names I gave them — Puss, Tiney, and Bess.
Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives I must inform you,
that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I
built them houses to sleep in ; each had a separate apartment, so
contrived that their ordure should pass through the bottom of it ;
an earthen pan placed under each received whatsoever fell, which
being duly emptied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly
sweet and clean. In the daytime they had the range of a hall,
and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into that
of another.

Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise him-
self upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples. He
would suffer me to take him up, and to carry him about in my
arms, and has more than once fallen fast asleep upon my knee.
He was ill three days, during which time I nursed him, kept him
apart from his fellows, that they might not molest him, (for, like
many .other wild animals, they persecute one of their own species
that is sick,) and by constant care, and trying him with a variety
of herbs, restored him to perfect health. No creature could be
more grateful than my patient after his recovery; a sentiment
which he most significantly expressed by licking my hand, first

COWPER.] COIVPER'S TAME HARES. 127

the back of it, then the palm, then every finger separately, then
between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of it un-
saluted ; a ceremony which he never performed but once again
upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made
it my custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden,
where he hid himself generally under the leaves of the cucumber
vine, sleeping or chewing the cud till evening ; in the leaves also
of that vine he found a favourite repast. I had not long habitu-
ated him to this taste of liberty, before he began to be impatient
for the return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would
invite me to the garden by drumming upon my knee, and by a
look of such expression, as it was not possible to misinterpret.
If this rhetoric did not immediately succeed, he would take the
skirt of my coat between his teeth, and pull it with all his force.
Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tamed, the shyness of
his nature was done away, and on the whole it was visible by
many symptoms, which I have not room to enumerate, that he
was happier in human society that when shut up with his natural
companions.

Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had not the least
effect. He, too, was sick, and in his sickness had an equal share
of my attention ; but if after his recovery I took the liberty to stroke
him, he would grunt, strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and
bite. He was, however, very entertaining in his way; even his
surliness was matter of mirth, and in his play he preserved such
an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such solemnity
of manner, that in him too I had an agreeable companion.

Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death
was occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been
washed, while it was yet damp, was a hare of great humour and
drollery. Puss was tamed by gentle usage : Tiney was not to be
tamed at all; and Bess had a courage and confidence that made
him tame from the beginning. I always admitted them into the
parlour after supper, when the carpet affording their feet a firm
hold, they would frisk and bound, and play a thousand gambols,
in which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always

128 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COWPEU.

superior to the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party.
One evening the cat, being in the room, had the hardiness to pat
Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drum-
ming upon her back with such violence that the cat was happy to
escape from under his paws, and hide herself.

I describe these animals as having each a character of his own.
Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so expressive
of that character, that, when I looked only on the face of either,
I immediately knew which it was. It is said that a shepherd,
however numerous his flock, soon becomes so familiar with their
features, that he can, by that indication only, distinguish each
from all the rest ; and yet, to a common observer, the difference is
hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimination in
the cast of countenances would be discoverable in hares, and am
persuaded that among a thousand of them no two could be found
exactly similar; a circumstance little suspected by those who
have not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have a
singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration there is
made in the place to which they are accustomed, and instantly
apply their nose to the examination of a new object. A small
hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a patch, and
that patch in a moment underwent the closest scrutiny. They
seem, too, to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of
their favourites ; to some persons, though they saw them daily,
they could never be reconciled, and would even scream when
they attempted to touch them ; but a miller coming in engaged
their affections at once, his powdered coat had charms that were
irresistible.. It is no wonder that my intimate acquaintance with
these specimens of the kind has taught me to hold the sports-
man's amusement in abhorrence ; he little knows what amiable
creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how
cheerful they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of
life, and that, impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of
man, it is only because man gives them peculiar cause for it.

That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short summary of
those articles of diet that suit them best.

COWPER.] COIVPER'S TAME HARES. 129

I take it to be a general opinion that they graze, but it is an
erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple ; they seem rather
to use it medicinally, soon quitting it for leaves of almost any
kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, are their favourite
vegetables, especially the last. I discovered, by accident, that
fine white sand is in great estimation with them ; I suppose as a
digestive. It happened that I was cleaning a birdcage when the
hares were with me \ I placed a pot filled with such sand upon
the floor, which being at once directed to by a strong instinct,
they devoured voraciously ; since that time I have generally taken
care to see them well supplied with it. They account green corn
a delicacy both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat ;
straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their
dainties ; they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished with
clean straw, never want them -, it serves them also for a bed, and,
if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and dry for a considerable
time. They do not, indeed, require aromatic herbs, but will eat
a small quantity of them with great relish, and are particularly
fond of the plant called musk ; they seem to resemble sheep in
this, that if their pasture be too succulent, they are very subject
to the rot ; to prevent which, I always made bread their principal
nourishment, and filling a pan with it cut into small squares,
placed it every evening in their chambers, for they feed only at
evening and in the night; during the winter, when vegetables
were not to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds of
carrot, adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin ; for
though they are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them.
These, however, not being a sufficient substitute for the juice of
summer herbs, they must at this time be supplied with water ; but
so placed that they cannot overset it in their beds. I must not
omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with twigs of haw-
thorn, and of the common brier, eating even the very wood when
it is of considerable thickness.

Bess, I have said, died young ; Tiney lived to be nine years
old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his
loins, by a fall ; Puss is still living, and has just completed his

VOL. III. I

130 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CcwpE».

tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor even of age, except
that he has grown more discreet and less frolicsome than he was.
I cannot conclude without observing that I have lately introduced
a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel, that had never seen a hare,
to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great
caution, but there was no real need of it. Puss discovered no
token of fear, nor Marquis the least symptom of hostility. There
is, therefore, it should seem, no natural antipathy between dog
and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions the flight of the
other, and the dog pursues because he is trained to it ; they eat
bread at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all re-
spects sociable and friendly.

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add,
that they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they are inde-
fatigably nice in keeping themselves clean, for which purpose
nature has furnished them with a brush under each foot ; and that
they are never infested by any vermin.

May 28th, 1784.

[MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR COWPER'S PAPERS.]

Tuesday, March 9, 1 786.

This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven months.
He died between twelve and one at noon, of mere old age, and
apparently without pain.

[We subjoin to this interesting narrative Cowper's "EPITAPH ON A HARE:"]
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,

Nor swifter greyhound follow ;
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo j

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,

Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,

COWPER.] COWPER'S TAME HARES. 131

He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,

And milk, and oats, and straw :
Thistles or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,

On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

Whereon he loved to bound ;
To skip and gambol like a fawn,

And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,

For then he lost his fear ;
But most before approaching showers,

Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons

He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play.

I keep him for his humour's sake,

For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,

And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade

He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,

Till gentler Puss shall come.

132 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save ;

And, partner once of Tiney/s box,
Must soon partake his grave.

204.— ©it fraiur.

OGDEN.

[THE Sermons of Dr Ogden are well-known to the theological student.
They are distinguished by that combination of earnestness and acute reasoning
which many of the divines of the last century inherited from their great pre-
decessors. Samuel Ogden, the son of poor parents, was born at Manchester
in 1716. His merits were rewarded by considerable preferment in the Church.
He died at Cambridge in 1778.]

You may remember a little ancient fable to the following pur-
pose : — " An old man upon his death-bed said to his sons, as
they stood round him, I am possessed, my dear children, of a
treasure of great value, which, as it is fit, must now be yours :
they drew nearer : nay, added the sick man, I have it not here in
my hands ; it is deposited somewhere in my fields ; dig, and you
will be sure to find. They followed his directions, though they
mistook his meaning. Treasure of gold or silver there was none ;
but, by means of this extraordinary culture, the land yielded in
the time of harvest such an abundant crop, as both rewarded
them for their obedience to their parent, and at the same time
explained the nature of his command."

Our Father, who is in heaven, hath commanded us in our wants
to apply to Him in prayer, with an assurance of success : — " Ask,
and it shall be given you 5 seek, and ye shall find." Now, it is
certain, that without His immediate interposition, were His ear
" heavy," as the Scripture phrase is, " that He could not hear,"
there is a natural efficacy in our prayers themselves to work in
our minds those graces and good dispositions which we beg of
the Almighty, and by consequence to make us fitter objects of
His mercy. Thus it is that we ask, and receive ; we seek, and,

OGDEN.J ON PRAYER. 133

like the children of the sagacious old husbandman, find also the
very thing which we were seeking, though in another form : our
petitions produce in fact the good effect which we desired, though
not in the manner which we ignorantly expected.

But yet, allowing this consideration its full force, there is no
necessity of stopping here, and confining the power of prayer to
this single method of operation. Does the clear assurance of its
use in this way preclude the hopes of every other advantage1?
Must we needs be made acquainted with all the efficacy of every-
thing that is our duty, and know the whole ground and reason
of all the actions which Almighty God can possibly require of us 1

When the Israelites under the conduct of Joshua were com-
manded, upon hearing the sound of the trumpet, to shout " with
a great shout; and the wall fell down flat, so that the people
went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they
took the city ; " was the reason of this command, and the opera-
tion of the means to be made use of, understood by all that were
concerned1? Was it the undulation of the air, think you, the
physical effect of many concurrent voices, that overthrew the
walls of Jericho? or, suppose the people were commanded to
shout in token of their faith, (for it was by faith, as the apostle
speaks, that the walls of Jericho fell down,) which way is it that
faith operates in the performance of such wonders ?

You will say, no doubt, that these were wonders, and the case
miraculous ; and that we are not from such extraordinary events
to draw conclusions concerning the general duties of Christianity.

The drought that was in the land of Israel in the time of Elijah,
I suppose no one will deny to have been miraculous. Yet we
have the authority of an apostle to conclude from it in general,
that good men's petitions are efficacious and powerful. " Elias
was a man subject to like passions as we are, and he prayed ear-
nestly that it might not rain j and it rained not on the earth by
the space of three years and six months." What is this brought
to prove ? That " the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man
availeth much." And this is the apostle's argument : — the prayer
of the prophet produced first a famine, and then plenty in all the

134 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [OGDEN.

land of Israel ; and if you, Christians, exercise yourselves in con-
fession and prayer, the disposition of your minds will be the better
for your devotions.

But the prayer, concerning which St James is speaking, may
seem to you to belong to the same class with that of Elijah, and
to be the prayer of men that could work miracles.

Hear another apostle : — " Be careful for nothing ; but in every-
thing, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your re-
quest be made known unto God." The plainest places in the
Scriptures will be mysteries, if the sense be this, that we can
expect no help from God in our distresses ; but may try, by acts
of devotion, to bring our own minds to a state of resignation and
contentment.

" Give us this day our daily bread. Not a sparrow falls to the
ground without your Father. The hairs of your head are num-
bered." Can the meaning of all this be, that God Almighty made
the world ; that it is not to be altered ; and we must take the
best care we can of ourselves while we live in it 1

" King Agrippa, belie vest thou the prophets ?" said the great
apostle, arguing with equal solidity and eloquence in defence of
that capital doctrine — the resurrection of our Lord from the dead.
He desired no other concession than the belief of the Scripture ;
on this foundation he undertook to erect the whole fabric of
Christianity.

Do you believe the Scriptures 1 If not, it is to no purpose to
stand disputing concerning the duty of prayer, or any other duty
commanded in the gospel. We must rather return back to the
first principles of religion, and lay again, as the same apostle
speaks, the foundation of faith towards God.

But there is no occasion for this ; you are desirous to go on to
perfection ; admitting the truth of Christianity, and believing the
Scriptures to be the Word of God.

The Scriptures teach you, that our Lord Christ being cruci-
fied, dead, and buried, the third day He rose again from the
dead. Now this is a great and astonishing miracle ; it is a thing
of which we have no experience : it is against all our rules and

OGDEN.] ON PRAYER. 135

observations ; and directly contrary to the established order of
the world, and the course of nature : yet you believe this.

The Scriptures also tell you, that hereafter your own bodies, in
like manner, shall be raised from the grave, and stand before the
judgment-seat of Christ. This event, too, whenever it shall take
place, will surely be another most amazing miracle, brought about
by no rules or laws that are made known to us, or ever fell within
the limits of our observation and experience. Yet we believe it ;
and live, or should do, under the influence of this persuasion.

The same Scripture to which we give credit, while it records
past miracles, is equally entitled to our assent, when it predicts,
as in this instance, miracles to come.

Suppose, then, the Scriptures were to acquaint us that there
are miracles performed at this present time, but either at such a
distance from us, or else in such a latent manner, that we could
not know by experience whether they were wrought or no ; still
there could be no room to doubt ; a ready assent must be yielded
to such a revelation by all who believe the Scripture.

Now, if the gospel teach doctrines from which the existence of
these miracles may be inferred, or if it command duties in which
these interpositions of Providence are supposed or implied, it
does enough to prove the reality of them though we see them
not, any more than we see yet the resurrection of the dead ; or,
than we did ever behold any of those miracles which were per-
formed by our Lord when He was here on earth.

There appears to be no difficulty in this matter to those who
believe that any miracles were ever wrought, that is, who believe
the Scriptures to be true ; nor any inducement or occasion to put
ourselves to trouble in giving hard interpretations of texts, or forced
and unnatural explications of any part of our duty, in order to
avoid what can be no impediment in the way of a Christian, the
acknowledgment of God's government and providence, His par-
ticular interposition, and continual operation ; as it is written :
" My Father worketh hitherto, and I work."

How magnificent is this idea of God's government ! That He
inspects the whole and every part of His universe every moment,

136 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [OGDEM

and orders it according to the counsels of His infinite wisdom and
goodness, by His omnipotent will ; whose thought is power ; and
His acts ten thousand times quicker than the light ; unconfused
in a multiplicity exceeding number, and .unwearied through eter-
nity !

How much comfort and encouragement to all good and devout
persons are contained in this thought ! That Almighty God, as
He hath His eye continually upon them, so He is employed in
directing, or doing what is best for them. Thus may they be
sure, indeed, that " all things work together for their good." They
may have the comfort of understanding all the promises of God's
protection, in their natural, full, and perfect sense, not spoiled by
that philosophy which is vain deceit. The Lord is truly their
Shepherd j not leaving them to chance or fate, but watching over
them Himself, and therefore can they lack nothing.

What a fund of encouragement is here, as for all manner of
virtue and piety, that we may be fit objects of God's gracious care
and providence, so particularly for devotion ; when we can reflect
that every petition of a good man is heard and regarded by Him
who holds the reins of nature in His hand. When God, from His
throne of celestial glory, issues out that uncontrollable command
to which all events are subject, even your desires, humble pious
Christians, are not overlooked or forgotten by Him. The good
man's prayer is among the reasons by which the Omnipotent is
moved in the administration of the universe.

How little is all earthly greatness ! How low and impotent the
proudest monarchs, if compared with the poorest person in the
world who leads but a good life ! for their influence, even in their
highest prosperity, is only among weak men like themselves, and
not seldom their designs are blasted from heaven, for the inso-
lence of those that formed them. " Is not this great Babylon
that I have built by the might of my power, and for the honour
of my majesty?" While the word was in the king's mouth, there
fell a voice from heaven, saying, " The kingdom is departed from
thee." But the poor man's prayer pierceth the clouds : and, weak
and contemptible as he seems, he can draw down the host of

LONGFELLOW.]

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

137

heaven, and arm the Almighty in his defence, so long as he is
able only to utter his wants, or can but turn the thought of his
heart to God.

Mmli of ibt

IT was the schooner Hesperus,
That sail'd the wintry sea ;

And the skipper had taken his little

daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes, as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn

buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
With his pipe in his mouth,

And watch' d how the veering flaw did

blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sail'd the Spanish main,

" I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

" Last night, the moon had a golden

ring,

And to-night no moon we see ! "
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his

pipe,
And a scornful laugh laugh' d he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the North-east ;

The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows froth'd like yeast.

LONGFELLOW.

Down came the storm, and smote

amain

The vessel in its strength ;
She shudder'd and paused, like a

frighted steed,
Then leap'd her cable's length.

" Come hither! come hither! my
little daughter,

And do not tremble so ;
For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's
coat,

Against the stinging blast ;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells

ring,

O say, what may it be?"
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound

coast ! " —
And he steer* d for the open sea.

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns,

O say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot
live

In such an angry sea ! "

" O father ! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?"

'38

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHENBVIX.

But the father answer'd never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lash'd to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face to the skies,

The lantern gleam'd through the

gleaming snow
On his fix'd and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasp'd her hands,

and pray'd

That saved she might be ;
And she thought of Christ who still'd

the waves
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark

and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and

snow,

Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land j

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her

bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy

waves

Look'd soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her

side,
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice,
With the masts, went by the board ;

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and

sank,
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roar'd !

At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lash'd close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes ;
And he saw her hair, like the brown
sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow !

Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe 1

205.—

gritislj ftotton.

CHENEVIX.

[THE following extract is from a posthumous work, in two volumes, entitled,
" An Essay upon National Character," published in 1832. There are many
striking reflections in this book, which is now little read. Richard Chenevix
was well known in the literary and scientific circles of his day, and was the
author of two plays, which were considered a most successful imitation of the
old dramatists.]

CHENEVIX.] THE INDUSTRY OF THE BRITISH NATI01'. 139

England, now the most renowned seat of industry, was not
always thus active in pursuing her industrious speculations. Like
every country in which early obstacles are great, she was retarded
at the first outset in her career ; but, like every country where
those difficulties are no more than enough to awaken salutary
exertions, she has finally taken a lead, and has left all her early
competitors in amaze at her inexplicable progress. The other
advantages which she possesses, her laws, her constitution, her
Shakspere, her Newton, other nations are more apt to dispute j
and, as the Grecian officers did to Themistocles after the battle
of Salamis, each allows her only the second place next to itself.
But in industry all are compelled to own, as did the Athenian
generals to Miltiades, before the day of Marathon, that she has
no rival, and to give her up the place of eminence.

Many were the nations who had the start of England in in-
dustry ; and the Italians, the Germans, the Flemish, and in some
respects the Dutch, were her predecessors. In very early times,
indeed, she possessed neither manufactures nor commerce,
although the aptitude of her mind for the mechanical arts was
observed by the Romans, at the end of the third century, to be
superior to that of the Gauls. Still, however, sharpened as it was
by necessity, it was not applied to general purposes even in the
time of Alfred ; nor does the history of her trade or manufacture
present any memorable feature, except its backwardness, till long
afterwards. The thirteenth century, indeed, can boast of some
commercial treaties with Norway and Flanders, a considerable
exportation of wool, the manufacture of some fine linens, the
society of the staple, the merchants of the steelyard, &c. But
these were far from being even the prognostics of the future
development of British industry ; for the principal business was
in the hands of foreigners, and the mint was conducted by
Italians. The next century witnessed much greater progress,
and opened under the favourable auspices of the Charta Merca-
toria, given by Edward I., granting safety to all merchants of
Almaine, France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, &c., who traffic with
England— a measure the more expedient, because as yet the

140 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHENEVIX.

natives did not much navigate to other countries, and the produce
was carried away by foreigners in foreign ships. Some English ves-
sels did, indeed, trade to the Baltic, but none had penetrated into
the Mediterranean. The condition of the shipping, too, was mean
and poor, as may be learned from the navy lent by Edward I. to
Philip the Fair, the largest vessels of which were manned by forty
men ; and in 1338 the galleys of Edward III. were built at Nice.
Notwithstanding this, however, the balance in favour of Britain
must have been considerable, since the exports were equal to
more than seven times the value of the imports. But, unfortun-
ately, they still consisted in raw produce, as wool, wool-fells, lead,
tin, &c., with the exception of some leather and some coarse
cloths ; for the natives did not learn how to fabricate those mate-
rials for themselves until the conclusion of this era, when manu-
factured articles became a little less uncommon among the goods
exported. The navigation act, prohibiting all British subjects to
carry merchandise, except in British ships, manned mostly by
Britons, dates from 1381, and the importation of woollen cloths
was forbidden in 1399.

The fifteenth century, which revealed so many important secrets
to the world, could not fail to be beneficial to England, although
it contained the most disastrous period of her history. Still,
however, she found means to apply much attention to her woollen
manufactures ; and a long list of foreign wares, prohibited in 1463,
shows that their fabrication at home had made their importation
useless. These, too, principally consisted in woollens of all de-
scriptions ; in a variety of articles of which leather and iron are
the immediate ingredients ; and in a few silken goods ; and prove
that necessary industry had made more progress than luxury.

But the advantages which she was destined to reap from the
general proficiency of Europe were to accrue to her more largely
at a later period ; and not even the sixteenth century saw them
fully expand. Nevertheless, her trade increased, and her ships
ventured into the seas of the Levant, where they carried woollen
stuffs and calf skins. She traded also with the west coast of
Africa, with Brazil, with Turkey, with the islands of the Mediter-

CHENEVIX.] THE INDUSTRY OF THE BRITISH NATION. \^1

ranean ; and her commerce with the Netherlands became most
extensive. Although the exportation of wool continued, that of
woollen cloths increased to an incredible amount ; and the ruin
of Antwerp gave her the manufacture of silk. So much, indeed,
had her traffic augmented, that in 1590, her customs, which Queen
Elizabeth had farmed for fourteen thousand pounds, were raised
to fifty thousand pounds ; and while her ships, both royal and
commercial, were increasing in burden and in number, her ports,
docks, storehouses, &c, were improved ; and she undertook
voyages of discoveries and circumnavigation.

The events in which England was engaged during the seven-
teenth century produced a very different effect upon the enter-
prising spirit of the nation from those wrhich occurred two hundred
years before. The age of Henry V. was the chivalrous age of that
country, and chivalry is not propitious to the plodding drudgery
of commerce. In the civil wars between the two Roses, the
people took no more part than did the Roman people in the
wars of Marius and Sylla. No improvement, then, could accrue
to them from such ill-directed efforts. But the civil wars of the
seventeenth century were for liberty. Every victory, every defeat,
enlightened the people, and rapid strides were made j colonies
were planted in the New World — the foundation of Anglo-Ame-
rican prosperity was laid — commercial treaties were formed, and
manufactures received an increase which would appear incredible
did not a later period far surpass it. Such was the prosperity of
trade, that in 1613 the customs, which but twenty-three years
earlier were farmed for fifty thousand pounds sterling, amounted
to one hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds ; and between
the years 1641 and 1647, the parliament levied forty millions,
to wage war against the king. Even in the worst times of the
republic, commerce was protected, as the generalisation of the
navigation act and other wise measures of Cromwell sufficiently
prove. Sir James Childe, in his " Discourses on Trade/' states
that, in 1670, the exportation of home manufactures, notwith-
standing the loss of some branches, had, upon the whole, in-
creased one-third j and another high authority, Sir William Petty,

142 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHENEVIX.

including a period of forty years, rates this proportion even at a
greater average ; for, besides that, many things had doubled dur-
ing that time, many had trebled and quadrupled, and the revenues
of the post-office, a sure criterion of public business and commer-
cial activity, had arisen in the proportion of twenty to one. At
the expulsion of the Stuarts, the following statement appears in
the writings of Davenant : — That the tonnage of the royal navy
had increased between the years 1660 and 1688, from sixty-two
thousand tons to one hundred and eleven thousand tons, while
that of the commercial navy had been doubled ; that the customs
had increased from three hundred and ninety thousand pounds,
to five hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds ; and the rental of
England in lands, houses, mines, &c., which in 1660 was valued
at six million pounds, was in 1698 fourteen million pounds : while
the total value of the territory, estimated at the first epocha at
twelve years' purchase, and at the latter at eighteen, had risen
from seventy-two to two hundred and fifty-two millions.

These successive augmentations have been considered by their
contemporaries as so many limits which it was impossible to pass ;
and England was supposed, at each of them, to have reached the
zenith of her prosperity ; nevertheless, she has continued still to
culminate, and men to think she can rise no higher. The
eighteenth century, when so many colonies received the produce
of so many manufactories, and returned such valuable commodi-
ties for new barter ; when all the wonders of the preceding epocha
were so much outdone, was held, in its turn, as one of the eras
which must inevitably bring on a retrograde motion. And, in-
deed, if unbounded prosperity must absolutely be followed by
ruin, these apprehensions may be in some measure excused,
though they were not realised.

The revolution which established the present constitution gave
a development to British commerce of which history records no
precedent. According to Davenant, the exports in 1703, a year
so marked with disasters occasioned by the weather, amounted to
more than six millions and a-half. In 1709, the net amount of
customs was near one million and a-half; and the revenue of the

CHENEVIX.] THE INDUSTRY OF THE BRITISH NATION. 143

post-office, which at the Restoration was twenty-one thousand
pounds, had become ninety thousand pounds in 1715, including
the addition of one-third of the original postage enacted by par-
liament, but which the extent of business made easily supportable.
Successive reductions of the interest of money took place, till at
length, in 1749, it reached three per cent, which low rate, however,
was no impediment to levying the most extraordinary supplies, in
1761 amounting to near twenty millions sterling, besides near three
millions of interest on the national debt. A war which ensued
shortly afterwards threatened a diminution of this prosperity ; yet,
but two years after its conclusion, and the recognition of Anglo-
American independence (1786), the customs of England netted
above five millions and a-half, the exports sixteen millions, the
post-office half a million ; the tonnage of the navy, royal and
commercial, was equal at least to three-fourths of that of all the
rest of civilised Europe and America united, and the public revenue
was fifteen million three hundred and ninety-seven thousand four
hundred and seventy-one pounds, leaving a surplus above the ex-
penditure of nine hundred and nineteen thousand two hundred
and ninety pounds. Thus had this nation, the most extraordinary
that civilisation has witnessed, again attained one of those impas-
sable limits which touch the verge of ruin, and, as usual, amid the
melancholy forebodings of all who rejoiced in her prosperity.

The period which followed these predictions has not realised
them, but has shown that even beyond those last limits there is
still another limit. In 1823, the customs were eleven millions and
a half, the export fifty-two millions, of which forty-three consisted
in home manufactures ; the post-office was one million and a half,
the revenue fifty-seve^n millions and a half, leaving a surplus of
six millions and a half above the expenditure. The reign of
Queen Elizabeth is often hailed by modern despondents as the
good time of old England ; yet the entire customs of the country
amounted, in her days, to one eight-hundredth part of the present
customs, and to one-tenth part of the present post-office alone.
Such a proportion of wealth, resulting from honest industry, never
yet belonged to twenty millions of human beings ; and what happy

144 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHEKEVIX.

grounds does not such prosperity as this afford to all who would
prophesy that the ruin of England is nearer at hand than ever.

One of the most remarkable and fortunate circumstances in the
above statement is, that the domestic and proper industry of
Englishmen — the produce of their hands and minds — furnishes
four-fifths of their exports. Of all the modes of traffic, the most
advantageous would be for one and the same people to perform
every operation relating to it ; that is to say, for them to grow
the raw material, and fabricate it at home, and then export the
manufactured commodity in ships of their own construction, and
manned by themselves. To complete this process in all its stages
has not fallen to the lot of any empire extensively engaged in
industry ; nor could it be possible for the same country to pro-
duce all the materials employed in manufactures, some of which
belong to the coldest, others to the warmest climates. But if the
soil be occupied in producing what it can best produce, and if
the returns of trade bring home other materials, the advantage is
nearly as great ; and the rationale of industry is fully satisfied by
the proportion of labour which remains to be bestowed upon
them. Now, though England does not produce the silks which
she weaves, or the dyes with which she colours them ; though all
the wool which she spins, all the iron which she converts into
steel, may not be of native growth, yet her commercial superiority
enables her to procure those primary substances at as low a price
as they would cost her were they the produce of the land. It is,
then, with great wisdom that she has turned her attention, not to
compel an unpropitious soil and climate to yield the drugs and
spices of the East, but to import them ; not to work ungrateful
ores into imperfect instruments, but to purchase the crude matter
wherever it is best, and to bestow upon it that which gives it
value, that which alone is value— labour. Neither is she the only
country that has pursued the same prudent system; almost all
commercial nations have adopted it. But there never did exist
an empire which bestowed so much of its own — of itself— upon
the raw productions of nature, and spun so large a portion of its
wealth out of the unsubstantial, intangible, abstract commodity,

CHENEVIX.] THE INDUSTRY OF THE BRITISH NATION. 145

composed of time, intellect, and exertion, and which is market-
able only in the staples of civilisation. In the ten millions of
foreign or colonial produce which England exported in 1823, there
was much important labour — much nautical skill and industry ;
but, in the remaining forty millions, there was not merely four
times, but perhaps sixty times as much happy application of time,
intellect, and exertion; and they who appreciate her by her
colonies, and by her mere transport of external produce, have a
feeble idea of her state of improvement.

Could any single principle suffice to designate, with absolute
precision, the difference between civilisation and luxury, it might
be the value of time. Time must be estimated by what it pro-
duces ; and superior understanding can make a minute bring
more blessings to mankind than ages in the hands of idleness.
Neither is it by the selfish enjoyments of luxury that our moments
can be rendered precious, but by the acquisition and application
of intellectual force, and their productive power is the justest
measure of civilisation.

Now, the productive power of time must be estimated by the
quantity and the quality — by the usefulness and the multitude of
its productions. The most civilised and enlightened nation is that
whose industry can pour upon the world the greatest proportion
of the best and most valuable commodities in the shortest time.

From the rapidity with which such a nation fabricates good
things, is derived a necessary appendage to this mode of appre-
ciating civilisation — cheapness. It must not, however, be sup-
posed that this is unlimited, or that a low price of manufactures
can compensate for their mediocrity. Civilisation does not make
bad things for nothing ; this is the work of idleness, or of luxury
affecting to be industrious. The bent of civilisation is to make good
things cheap.

It is a proud and true distinction, that, in this island, the
average consumption of woollens per head is more than double
of what it is in the most favoured country of Europe ; and more
than four times as much as the average of the entire Continent,
including even its coldest regions.

VOL. III. K

146 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS,

206. — &I£ (gttclb translators 0f

[OUR literature is rich in poetical translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey.
The most famous of the early versions is that of George Chapman, the drama-
tic contemporary ot Shakspere. The more popular verse of Pope consigned
Chapman to long and undeserved neglect, but his merit has been recognised in
the present age by the publication of several new editions of the folio. It has
been truly said of Pope, that, if he did not give us Homer, he produced a
magnificent poem that will hold its place with the original productions of his
genius. After Pope came Cowper, whose translation in blank verse is far
more literal, and therefore approaches to a true reflection of the spirit of that
"Tale of Troy" which has so largely influenced poetical thought in ancient
and modern Europe. In our immediate times the prevailing desire to become
more intimately acquainted with the Greek bard has given us new poetical
versions, the most successful of which is that of the Earl of Derby, published
in 1864. This is also in blank verse. It is an encouraging example to all
who have arduous duties to perform, that a statesman, the powerful leader of a.
great party, finds his true recreation in intellectual pleasures, which are open
to the humblest, as well as the highest, to cultivate. The passage which we
have selected for parallel translation is the Opening of the Eleventh Iliad.
This affords us an opportunity of giving a fragment by the late Sidney Walker,
whose scholarship and genius might have produced a standard version, had his
time been less engrossed by desultory labours. Mr Walker's specimen ap-
peared in Knights Quarterly Magazine, vol. iii., 1824.]

GEORGE CHAPMAN, born 1557, died 1634.
Aurora, out of restful bed, did from bright Tython rise,
To bring each deathless essence light, and use, to mortal eyes ;
When Jove sent Eris to the Greeks, sustaining in her hand
Stern signs of her designs for war: she took her horrid stand
Upon Ulysses' huge black bark, that did at anchor ride
Amidst the fleet ; from whence her sounds might ring on every

side ;

Both to the tents of Telamon, and th' authors of their smarts ;
Who held, for fortitude and force, the navy's utmost parts.

The red-eyed goddess, seated there, thunder'd th' Orthian song,
High, and with horror, through the ears of all the Grecian throng ;
Her verse with spirits invincible did all their breasts inspire;
Blew out all darkness from their limbs, and set their hearts on
fire;

THE ENGLISH TRANSLATORS OF HOMER. 147

And presently was bitter war, more sweet a thousand times
Than any choice in hollow keels, to greet their native climes.
Atrides summon'd all to arms, to arms himself disposed.

Then all enjoin'd their charioteers to rank their chariot horse
Close to the dyke : forth march'd the foot, whose front they did

r'enforce

With some horse troops : the battle then was all of charioteers,
Lined with light horse ; but Jupiter disturb'd this form with fears,
And from air's upper region did bloody vapours rain ;
For sad ostent, much noble life should ere their times be slain.
The Trojan host at Ilus' tomb was in battalia led, .
By Hector and Polydamas, and old Anchises' seed,
Who god-like was esteem'd in Troy ; by grave Antenor's race,
Divine Agenor, Polybus, unmarried Acamas,
Proportion'd like the states of heaven : in front of all the field,
Troy's great Priamides did bear his always-equal shield,
Still plying th' ordering of his power. And as amid the sky
We sometimes see an ominous star blaze clear and dreadfully,
Then run his golden head in clouds, and straight appear again ;
So Hector otherwhiles did grace the vanguard, shining plain,
Then in the rearguard hid himself, and labour'd everywhere
To order and encourage all : his armour was so clear,
And he applied each place so fast, that like a lightning thrown
Out of the shield of Jupiter, in every eye he shone.
And as upon a rich man's crop of barley or of wheat,
(Opposed for swiftness at their work,) a sort of reapers sweat,
Bear down the furrows speedily, and thick their handfuls fall :
So at the joining of the hosts ran Slaughter through them all ;
None stoop'd to any fainting thought of foul inglorious flight,
But equal bore they up their heads, and fared like wolves in fight :
Stern Eris with such weeping sights rejoiced to feed her eyes ;
Who only show'd herself in field of all the deities.
The other in Olympus' tops sat silent, and repined
That Jove to do the Trojans grace should bear so fix'd a mind.
He cared not, but (enthroned apart) triumphant sat in sway

148 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

Of his free power ; and from his seat took pleasure to display
The cities so adorn'd with tow'rs, the sea with vessels fill'd ;
The splendour of refulgent arms, the killer and the kilFd.

ALEXANDER POPE, born 1688, died 1744.
The saffron morn, with early blushes spread
Now rose refulgent from Tithonius' bed :
With new-born day to gladden mortal sight,
And gild the course of heaven with sacred light :
When baleful Eris, sent by Jove's command,
The torch of discord blazing in her hand,
Through the red skies her bloody sign extends,
And, wrapt in tempests, o'er the fleet descends.
High on Ulysses' bark, her horrid stand
She took, and thunder'd through the seas and land.
Even Ajax and Achilles heard the sound,
Whose ships, remote, the guarded navy bound.
Thence the black Fury through the Grecian throng
With horror sounds the loud Orthian song :
The navy shakes, and at the dire alarms
Each bosom boils, each warrior starts to arms.
No more they sigh, inglorious to return,
But breathe revenge, and for the combat burn.

The king of men his hardy host inspires
With loud command, with great example fires ;
Himself first rose, himself before the rest
His mighty limbs in radiant armour drest

Close to the limits of the trench and mound
The fiery coursers, to their chariots bound
The squires restrain'd ; the foot, with those who wield
The lighter arms, rush forward to the field.
To second these, in close array combined,
The squadrons spread their sable wings behind.
Now shouts and tumults wake the tardy sun,
As with the light the warriors' toils begun.

THE ENGLISH TRANS LA TORS OF HOMER. 149

Even Jove, whose thunder spoke his wrath, distill'd

Red drops of blood o'er all the fatal field ;

The woes of men unwilling to survey,

And all the slaughters that must stain the day.

Near Ilus' tomb, in order ranged around,
The Trojan lines possess'd the rising ground :
There wise Polydamas and Hector stood,
.^Eneas, honour'd as a guardian god ;
Bold Polybus, Agenor the divine,
The brother warriors of Antenor's line ;
With youthful Acamas, whose beauteous face
And fair proportion match'd th' ethereal race \
Great Hector cover'd with his spacious shield,
Plies all the troops, and orders all the field.
As the red star now shows his sanguine fires
Through the dark clouds, and now in night retires ;
Thus through the ranks appear'd the god-like man,
Plunged in the rear, or blazing in the van \
While streamy sparkles, restless as he flies,
Flash from his arms as lightning from the skies.
As sweating reapers in some wealthy field,
Ranged in two bands, their crooked weapons wield,
Bear down the furrows, till their labours meet j
Thick falls the heapy harvest at their feet :
So Greece and Troy the field of war divide,
And falling ranks are strew'd on every side.
None stoop'd a thought to base inglorious flight ;
But horse to horse, and man to man, they fight.
Not rabid wolves more fierce contest their prey ;
Each wounds, each bleeds, but none resign the day.
Discord with joy the scene of death descries,
And drinks large laughter at her sanguine eyes :
Discord alone, of all th' immortal train,
Swells the red horrors of this direful plain :
The gods in peace their golden mansions fill,
Ranged in bright order on th' Olympian hill ;

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS,

But general murmurs told their griefs above,
And each accused the partial will of Jove.
Meanwhile apart, superior and alone,
Th' eternal monarch on his awful fhrone,
Wrapt in the blaze of boundless glory sate ;
And, fix'd, fulfill'd the just decrees of fate;
On earth he turn'd his all-considering eyes,
And mark'd the spot where Ilion's towers arise ;
The sea with ships, the fields with armies spread,
The victor's rage, the dying and the dead.

WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER, born early in the century, died 1846.
Now from the couch of Tithon, ministering
New light to gods and men, rose Morn ; when Strife,
Despatch'd by Jove, to the Achaian ships
Rush'd down, and in her hand the sign of war
Waved fearful. On Ulysses' broad black ship,
The midmost of the fleet, whence easily
Thy shout might by Achilles have been heard,
Or Ajax, at its far extremities,
She stood, and to the congregated Greeks
Raised the loud Orthian war-song, that each heart
With sudden valour fired ; and had a God
Then given them choice of battle or return,
They would have chosen battle. Loud was heard
The voice of Agamemnon, as he call'd
His men to arm, and in the midst himself
Braced on his glittering armour.

The hosts

Array'd for battle : on the trench's verge
They left their chariots, and in arms themselves,
Horsemen and foot, pour'd forth. Incessant shouts
Vex'd the still morn. The foot moved first, the horse
Close followed : Jove, the martial tumult wide
Awakening, sent from heaven a rain-shower mix'd
With blood, in sign that many a valiant soul

THE ENGLISH TRANSLA TORS OF HOMER.

Should to its reckoning fleet. On th' other side
The Trojans arm'd for battle ; Hector them
Array'd, and wise Polydamas, and he
Honour'd by Trojans even as a god,
^Eneas, and Antenor's warrior sons,
Agenor, Polybus, Acamas of form
Unmatch'd by mortals. In the foremost rank
Was Hector, by his round effulgent shield
Distinguished. As the star of pestilence
Now breaks in all its glory forth, anon
Cowers under darkness, Hector now was seen
The van exhorting, now amidst the rear
Conspicuous, while his frame, all o'er with arms
Flash'd, like the lightnings of our father Jove.

As reapers in some rich man's field mow down
Opposed, the harvest, barley, or wheat ; the sheaves
Fall thick : so, each to each opposed, they held
In even scale the war ; equal were set
The squadrons, and like wolves their rage; with joy
Discord beheld, she only of the gods
There present ; from on high the deities
Each at his shining threshold set, surveyed
The war, while all arraign'd the Thunderer's will
Too partial to the Trojans. He of them
Light heeding, sate on Ida's top apart,
Rejoicing in his glory; thence survey'd
The towers of Ilion, and the ships of Greece,
The flash of arms, the slayers and the slain.

EDWARD, EARL OF DERBY, born 1799.
Now rose Aurora from Tithonus' bed,
To mortals and immortals bringing light ;
When to the ships of Greece came Discord down,
Despatched from Jove, with dire portents of war.
"Upon Ulysses' lofty ship she stood,
The midmost, thence to shout to either side,

152 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS.

Or to the tents of Ajax Telamon,

Or of Achilles, who at each extreme,

Confiding in their strength, had moor'd their ships.

There stood the goddess, and in accents loud

And dread she call'd, and fix'd in every breast

The fierce resolve to wage unwearied war ;

And dearer to their hearts than thoughts of home

Or wish'd return, became the battle-field.

Atrides, loudly shouting, call'd the Greeks
To arms : himself his flashing armour donn'd.

Forthwith they order'd, each his charioteer,
To stay his car beside the ditch ; themselves,
On foot, in arms accoutred, sallied forth,
And loud, ere early dawn, the clamour rose.
Advanc'd before the cars, they lin'd the ditch ;
Follow'd the cars, a little space between :
But Jove with dire confusion fill'd their ranks,
Who sent from heaven a show'r of blood-stain'd rain,
In sign of many a warrior's coming doom,
Soon to the viewless shades untimely sent.
Meanwhile upon the slope, beneath the plain,
The Trojan chiefs were gather'd j Hector's self,
Polydamas, ^Eneas, as a god
In rev'rence held ; Antenor's three brave sons,
Agenor's godlike presence, Polybus,
And, heav'nly fair, the youthful Acamas.
In front was seen the broad circumference
Of Hector's shield ; and as amid the clouds
Shines forth the fiery dog-star, bright and clear,
Anon beneath the cloudy veil conceal'd ;
So now in front was Hector seen, and now
Pass'd to the rear, exhorting ; all in brass,
His burnish'd arms like Jove's own lightning flash'd.

As in the corn-land of some wealthy lord
The rival bands of reapers mow the swathe,

SIR THOS. BROWNE.] URN-BURIAL. 153

Barley or wheat : and fast the trusses fall ;

So Greeks and Trojans mow'd th' opposing ranks ;

Nor these admitted thought of faint retreat,

But still made even head ; while those, like wolves,

Rushed to the onset ; Discord, goddess dire,

Beheld, rejoicing ; of the heavenly powers

She only mingled with the combatants ;

The others all were absent ; they, serene,

Reposed in gorgeous palaces, for each

Amid Olympus' deep recesses built.

Yet all the cloud-girt son of Saturn blamed,

Who will'd the vict'ry to the arms of Troy.

He heeded not their anger ; but withdrawn

Apart from all, in pride of conscious strength,

Surveyed the walls of Troy, the ships of Greece,

The flash of arms, the slayers and the slain.

207,

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

[SiR THOMAS BROWNE, a learned physician of the seventeenth century,
was born in London in 1605. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford,
took his degree of Doctor of Medicine at Leyden, and settled at Norwich as
a physician in 1636. His two great works are " Religio Medici," and "En-
quiries into Vulgar and Common Errors." He wrote also many tracts. A
complete edition of his works, including his Life and Correspondence, was
edited by Mr Wilkin in 1835. He was knighted by Charles the Second in
1671, and died in 1682. Sir Thomas Browne was not only one of the most
learned writers of his time, but his style is singularly powerful and idiomatic.
It is commonly held that Dr Johnson, who wrote his life, founded his own
style upon that of this remarkable writer ; but although the Latin forms pre-
vail to a great extent in each, it seems to us that there is a striking difference
between the balanced periods of Johnson and the rush and crowding of the
thoughts of Browne. His discourse on "Urn-Burial," from which the follow-
ing is an extract, was occasioned by the discovery of some ancient sepulchral
urns in Norfolk. The passage which we give is the fifth and concluding chap-
ter of this most original production.]

154 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Sm THOS. BROWNE.

Now since these dead bones have already outlasted the living
ones of Methuselah, and in a yard underground, and thin walls
of clay, outworn all the strong and spacious buildings above it ;
and quietly rested under the drums and tramplings of three con-
quests : what prince can promise such diuturnity unto his relics,
or might not gladly say —

" Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim ?"*

Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath an art to make dust
of all things, hath yet spared these minor monuments. In vain
we hope to be known by open and visible conservatories, when
to be unknown was the means of their continuation, and obscu-
rity their protection. If they died by violent hands, and were
thrust into their urns, these bones became considerable, and
some old philosophers would honour them, whose souls they
considered most pure, which were thus snatched from their
bodies, and to retain a stronger propension unto them ; whereas
they weariedly left a languishing corpse, and with faint desires of
reunion. If they fell by long and aged decay, yet wrapt up in
the bundle of time, they fall into indistinction, and make but one
blot with infants. If we begin to die when we live, and long life
be but a prolongation of death, our life is a sad composition ; we
live with death, and die not in a moment How many pulses
made up the life of Methuselah were work for Archimedes : com-
mon counters sum up the life of Moses his man. Our days be-
come considerable, like petty sums, by minute accumulations \
where numerous fractions make up but small round numbers;
and our days of a span long make not one little finger.

If the nearness of our last necessity brought a nearer con-
formity into it, there were a happiness in hoary hairs, and no
calamity in half senses. But the long habit of living indisposeth
us for dying ; when avarice makes us the sport of death, when

* The line is from the second Elegy of the third book of Tibullus, where
he dwells on the rites which will attend his funeral, and wishes that his
obsequies might be so performed.

SIR THOS. BROWNE.] URN-BURIAL. j r ?

even David grew politically cruel, and Solomon could hardly be
said to be the wisest of men. But many are too early old, and
before the date of age. Adversity stretcheth our days, misery
makes Alcmena's nights, and time hath no wings unto it. But
the most tedious being is that which can unwish itself, content to
be nothing, or never to have been, which was beyond the mal-
content of Job, who cursed not the day of his life, but his
nativity ; content to have so far been, as to have a title to future
being, although he had lived here but in an hidden state of life,
and as it were an abortion.

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed
when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions,
are not beyond all conjecture. What time the persons of these
ossuaries entered the famous nations of the dead, and slept with
princes and councillors, might admit a wide solution. But who
were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes
made up, were a question above antiquarism ; not to be resolved
by man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except we consult the pro-
vincial guardians, or tutelary observators. Had they made as
good provision for their names, as they have done for their relics,
they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to
subsist in bones, and be but pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in
duration. Vain ashes which, in the oblivion of names, persons,
times, and sexes, have found unto themselves a fruitless continu-
ation, and only arise unto late posterity, as emblems of mortal
vanities, antidotes against pride, vain-glory, and madding vices.
Pagan vain-glories which thought the world might last for ever,
had encouragement for ambition ; and, finding no atropos unto
the immortality of their names, were never dampt with the neces-
sity of oblivion. Even old ambitions had the advantage of ours,
in the attempts of their vain-glories, who acting early, and before
the probable meridian of time, have by this time found great
accomplishment of their designs, whereby the ancient heroes have
already out-lasted their monuments and mechanical preservations.
But in this latter scene of time we cannot expect such mummies
unto our memories, when ambition may fear the prophecy of

156 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SiR THOS. BROWNE.

Elias, and Charles the Fifth can never hope to live within two
Methuselahs of Hector.

And therefore, restless inquietude for the diuturnity of our
memories unto present considerations sefcms a vanity almost out
of date, and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot hope to live
so long in our names, as some have done in their persons. One
face of Janus holds no proportion unto the other. Tis too late
to be ambitious. The great mutations of the world are acted, or
time may be too short for our designs. To extend our memories
by monuments, whose death we daily pray for, and whose dura-
tion we cannot hope, without injury to our expectations in the
advent of the last day, were a contradiction to our beliefs. We
whose generations are ordained in this setting part of time, are
providentially taken off from such imaginations ; and, being ne-
cessitated to eye the remaining particle of futurity, are naturally
constituted unto thoughts of the next world, and cannot excusably
decline the consideration of that duration which maketh pyramids
pillars of snow and all that 's past a moment.

Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and the mor-
tal right-lined circle must conclude and shut up all. There is no
antidote against the opium of time, which temporally considereth
all things : our fathers find their graves in our short memories,
and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. Grave-
stones tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while some
trees stand, and old families last not three oaks. To be read by
bare inscriptions like many in Gruter, to hope for eternity by
enigmatical epithets, or first letters of our names, to be studied
by antiquaries, who we were, and have new names given us like
many of the mummies, are cold consolations unto the students of
perpetuity, even by everlasting languages.

To be content that times to come should only know there was
such a man, not caring whether they knew more of him, was a
frigid ambition in Cardan ; disparaging his horoscopal inclination
and judgment of himself. Who cares to subsist like Hippocrates'
patients, or Achilles' horses in Homer, under naked nominations,
without deserts and noble acts, which are the balsam of our

SIR THOS. BROWNE.] URN-BURIAL. jcy

memories, the entelecheia and soul of our subsistences 1 To be
nameless in worthy deeds exceeds an infamous history. The
Canaanitish woman lives more happily without a name than He-
rodotus with one. And who had not rather have been the good
thief, than Pilate 1

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and
deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of
perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the pyramids]
Erostratus lives that burnt the temple of Diana, he is almost lost
that built it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse,
confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities
by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal dura-
tions, and Thersites is like to live as long as Agamemnon. Who
knows whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not
more remarkable persons forgot, than any that stand remembered
in the known account of time 1 Without the favour of the ever-
lasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last,
and Methuselah's long life had been his only chronicle.

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content
to be as though they had not been, to be found in the register of
God, not in the record of man. Twenty-seven names make up
the first story before the flood, and the recorded names ever since
contain not one living century. The number of the dead long
exceedeth all that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth
the day, and who knows when was the equinox? Every hour
adds unto that current arithmetic, which scarce stands one moment.
And since death must be the Lucina of life, and even Pagans
could doubt, whether thus to live were to die ; since our longest
sun sets at right declensions, and makes but winter arches, and
therefore it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, and
have our light in ashes ; since the brother of death daily haunts
us with dying mementoes, and time, that grows old in itself, bids
us hope no long duration ; — diuturnity is a dream and folly of
expectation.

Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion
shares with memory a great part even of our living beings ; we

158 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SiR THOS. BROWNE.

slightly remember our felicities, and the smartest strokes of afflic-
tion leave but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremi-
ties, and sorrows destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones
are fables. Afflictions induce callosities ; miseries are slippery, or
fall like snow upon us, which notwithstanding is no unhappy stu-
pidity. To be ignorant of evils to come, and forgetful of evils
past, is a merciful provision in nature, whereby we digest the
mixture of our few and evil days, and, our delivered senses not
relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sorrows are not kept
raw by the edge of repetitions. A great part of antiquity con-
tented their hopes of subsistency with a transmigration of their
souls — a good way to continue their memories, while, having the
advantage of plural successes, they could not but act something
remarkable in such variety of beings, and, enjoying the fame of
their past selves, make accumulation of glory unto their last dura-
tions. Others, rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night ot
nothing, were content to recede into the common being, and
make one particle of the public soul of all things, which was no
more than to return into their unknown and divine original again.
Egyptian ingenuity was more unsatisfied, contriving their bodies
in sweet consistencies, to attend the return of their souls. But all
was vanity, feeding the wind, and folly. The Egyptian mummies,
which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth.
Mummy is become merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds, and
Pharaoh is sold for balsams.

In vain do individuals hope for immortality, or any patent from
oblivion, in preservations below the moon : men have been de-
ceived even in their flatteries above the sun, and studied conceits
to perpetuate their names in heaven. The various cosmography
of that part hath already varied the names of contrived constella-
tions ; Nimrod is lost in Orion, and Osiris in the dog-star. While
we look for incorruption in the heavens, we find they are but like
the earth] — durable in their main bodies, alterable in their parts;
whereof, beside comets and new stars, perspectives begin to tell
tales, and the spots that wander about the sun, with Phaeton's
favour, would make clear conviction.

SIR THOS. BROWNE.] URN-BURIAL. 159

There is nothing strictly immortal, but immortality. Whatever
hath no beginning, may be confident of no end ; — which is the
peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself; and
the highest strain of omnipotency, to be so powerfully constituted
as not to suffer even from the power of itself : all others have a
dependent being, and within the reach of destruction. But the
sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory,
and the quality of either state after death makes a folly of posthu-
mous memory. God who can only destroy our souls, and hath
assured our resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath
directly promised no duration. Wherein there is so much of
chance, that the boldest expectants have found unhappy frustra-
tion ; and to hold long subsistence seems but a scape in obli-
vion. But man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous
in the grave, solemnising nativities and deaths with equal lustre,
nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of his nature.*

Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within us.
A small fire sufficeth for life, great flames seemed too little after
death, while men vainly affected furious fires, and to burn like
Sardanapalus ; but the wisdom of funeral laws found the folly of
prodigal blazes, and reduced undoing fires unto the rule of sober
obsequies, wherein few could be so mean as not to provide wood,
pitch, a mourner, and an urn.

Five languages secured not the epitaph of Gordianus. The
man of God lives longer without a tomb than any by one, invi-
sibly interred by angels, and adjudged to obscurity, though not
without some marks directing human discovery. Enoch and
Elias, without either tomb or burial, in an anomalous state of
being, are the great examples of perpetuity, in their long and liv-
ing memory, in strict account being still on this side death, and
having a late part yet to act upon this stage of earth. If in the
decretory term of the world we shall not all die but be changed,
according to received translation, the last day will make but few
graves ; at least, quick resurrections will anticipate lasting sepul-

* Southey, who quotes this passage in his "Colloquies," conjectures that
Browne wrote iiiftiny.

1 60 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [SiR THOS. BROWNE.

tures. Some graves will be opened before they be quite closed,
and Lazarus no wonder. When many that feared to die, shall
groan that they can die but once, the dismal state is the second
and living death, when life puts despair on the damned ; when
men shall wish the coverings of mountains, not of monuments,
and annihilation shall be courted.

While some have studied monuments, others have studiously
declined them, and some have been so vainly boisterous, that they
durst not acknowledge their graves ; wherein Alaricus seems most
subtle, who had a river turned to hide his bones at the bottom.
Even Sylla, that thought himself safe in his urn, could not prevent
revenging tongues and stones thrown at his monument. Happy
are they whom privacy makes innocent, who deal so with men
in this world, that they are not afraid to meet them in the next;
who, when they die, make no commotion among the dead, and
are not touched with that poetical taunt of Isaiah.

Pyramids, arches, obelisks, were but the irregularities of vain-
glory, and wild enormities of ancient magnanimity. But the
most magnanimous resolution rests in the Christian religion,
which trample th upon pride, and sits on the neck of ambition,
humbly pursuing that infallible perpetuity unto which all others
must diminish their diameters, and be poorly seen in angles of
contingency.

Pious spirits who passed their days in raptures of futurity, made
little more of this world than the world that was before it, while
they lay obscure in the chaos of pre-ordination, and night of their
forebeings. And if any have been so happy as truly to under-
stand Christian annihilation, ecstasies, exolution, liquefaction,
transformation, the kiss of the spouse, gustation of God, and in-
gression into the divine shadow, they have already had an hand-
some anticipation ot heaven; the glory of "the world is surely
over, and the earth in ashes unto them.

To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their production,
to exist in their names and predicament of chimeras, was large
satisfaction unto old expectations, and made one part of their
elysiums. But all this is nothing in the metaphysics of true belief.

VARIOUS. ] HA R t-'ES T. T (} ,

To live, indeed, is to be again ourselves, which being not only an
hope, but an evidence in noble believers, 'tis all one to lie in St
Innocent's churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt. Ready to be
anything, in the ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six
foot as the moles of Adrianus.

208.—

VARIOUS.

THE glad harvest-time has not been neglected by the poets. THOMSON
takes us into "the ripened field" with his solemn cadences: —

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,
And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand
In fair array; each by the lass he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate
By nameless gentle offices her toil.
At once they stoop, and swell the lusty sheaves,
While through their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.
Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks ;
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman ! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh ! think,
How good the God of harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields ;
While these unhappy partners of your kind
Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
VOL. in. L

162

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

[VARIOUS.

And ask their humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.

The prosaic character of the field-work is somewhat changed when we hear
the song of WORDSWORTH'S solitary reaper : —

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass !
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
Oh, listen ! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers, in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands :
Such thrilling voice was never heard
In spring-time, from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again ?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ; —
I listen'd — motionless and still ;
And, when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

But all the practical poetry of Harvest-Home belongs to a past time.
it ever come again as HERRICK has described it? —

Will

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil

We are lords of wine and oil ;

By whose tough labours and rough

hands

We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now

come,

And to the pipe sing harvest-home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a maukin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure as it is sweet ;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linen white as lilies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned.
About the cart hear how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout,

Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with, a shout, and these with

laughter.
Some bless the cart, some kiss the

sheaves,

Some prank them up with oaken leaves ;
Some cross the thill -horse, some with

great

Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's

hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your

mirth,

Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef;

VARIOUS.]

HARVEST.

'63

With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, which makes full the

meal,

With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As, here a custard, there a pie,
And here all-tempting frumentie ;
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There 's that which drowns all care,

stout beer;
Which freely drink to your lord's

health,

Then to the plough, the common-
wealth,
Next to your flails, your fanes, your

fatts ;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats ;

We want the spirit of brotherhood
which gladdened the hearts of the old
Sweet country life to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own ;
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plough'stthe ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper

home;

Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove
To bring from thence the scorched

clove;

Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the west :
No, thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece ;
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year :
But walk'st about thine own dear

bounds,

Not envying others' larger grounds ;
For well thou know'st 'tis not the

extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock, the ploughman's

horn,
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,

To the rough sickle, and crooked scythe,
Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat, and as ye eat,
Be mindful that the lab'ring neat,
As you, may have their full of meat ;
And know, besides, you must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they 're hanged

up now.
And you must know your lord's word's

true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills

you.

And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.

to bring back the English country life
poets : —

Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which, though well soiled, yet thou

dost know

That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands ;
There at the plough thou find'st thy

team,

With a hind whistling there to them ;
And cheer'st them up, by singing

how

The kingdom's portion is the plough :
This done, then to the enamell'd

meads
Thou go'st, and, as thy foot there

treads,

Thou seest a present god-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower ;
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed

kine,

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine ;
Here thou behold'st thy large sleak

neat

Unto the dew-laps up in meat ;
And as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,

164

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

[VARIOUS.

To make a pleasing pastime there ;
These seen, thou go'st to view thy

flocks

Of sheep safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass, as backs with

wool ;

And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.
For sports, for pageantry and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holidays ;
On which the young men and maids

meet

To exercise their dancing feet,
Tripping the homely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crown'd.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou

hast,
Thy May-poles too, with garlands

graced,

Thy morris-dance, thy whitsun-ale,
Thy shearing-feast, which never fail,
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,
That 's toss'd up after Fox i' th' hole,

Thy mummeries, thy twelve-tide kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings,
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy nisset wit,
And no man pays too dear for it ;
To these thou hast thy times to go
And trace the hare i' th' treacherous

snow ;

Thy witty wiles to draw and get
The lark into the trammel-net ;
Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade,
To take the precious pheasant made ;
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls,

then

To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
Oh, happy life ! if that their good
Their husbandmen but understood ;
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings with such sports as

these ;
And, lying down, have nought t'

affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short

the night.

HERRICK.

The last poet who has described Harvest-Home was BLOOMFIELD, the
"Farmer's Boy." Even this solitary festival belongs, we fear, to the things
that were before the flood.

Here once a year distinction lowers her crest ;
The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal, all ; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And warm'd with gratitude he quits his place,
With sunburnt hands, and ale-enlivened face,
Refills the jug his honoured host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend ;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

H. MARTINEAU.] MOVING ONWARD.

209.— toirin ©ttfoartr.

H. MARTINEAU.

[THE following reflective passage is from Miss Martineau's admirable novel
of " Deerbrook." Whatever differences of opinion may exist as to the ten-
dencies of some of this lady's works — and no living writer has been more
attacked by unjust prejudices— no candid mind can doubt that the mainspring
of her writings has been an ardent desire for the well-being of the human
race.]

The world rolls on, let what will be happening to the individuals
who occupy it. The sun rises and sets, seed-time and harvest
come and go, generations arise and pass away, law and authority
hold on their course, while hundreds of millions of human hearts
have stirring within them struggles and emotions eternally new ; —
and experience so diversified as that no two days appear alike to
any one, and to no two does any one day appear the same. There
is something so striking in this perpetual contrast between the ex-
ternal uniformity and internal variety of the procedure of existence,
that it is no wonder that multitudes have formed a conception of
Fate — of a mighty unchanging power, blind to the differences of
spirits, and deaf to the appeals of human delight and misery ; a
huge insensible force, beneath which all that is spiritual is sooner
or later wounded, and is ever liable to be crushed. This concep-
tion of fate is grand, is natural, and fully warranted to minds too
lofty to be satisfied with the details of human life, but which
have not risen to the far higher conception of a Providence to
whom this uniformity and variety are but means to a higher end
than they apparently involve. There is infinite blessing in having
reached the nobler conception ; the feeling of helplessness is re-
lieved ; the craving for sympathy from the ruling power is satisfied;
there is a hold for veneration ; there is room for hope ; there is,
above all, the stimulus and support of an end perceived or anti-
cipated j a purpose which steeps in sanctity all human experience.
Yet even where this blessing is the most fully felt and recognised,
the spirit cannot but be at times overwhelmed by the vast regu-

l66 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. MARTINEAU.

larity of aggregate existence — thrown back upon its faith for sup-
port, when it reflects how all things go on as they did before it
became conscious of existence, and how all would go on as now,
if it were to die to-day. On it rolls — not only the great globe
itself, but the life which stirs and hums on its surface, enveloping
it like an atmosphere ; — on it rolls ; and the vastest tumult that
may take place among its inhabitants can no more make itself
seen and heard above the general stir and hum of life, than
Chimborazo or the loftiest Himalaya can lift its peak into space
above the atmosphere. On, on it rolls ; and the strong arm of
the united race could not turn from its course one planetary mote
of the myriads that swim in space \ no shriek of passion, nor shrill
song of joy, sent up from a group of nations or a continent, could
attain the ear of the eternal silence, as she sits throned among
the stars. Death is less dreary than life in this view — a view
which at times, perhaps, presents itself to every mind, but which
speedily vanishes before the faith of those who, with the heart,
believe that they are not the accidents of fate, but the children of
a Father. In the house of every wise parent may then be seen
an epitome of life — a sight whose consolation is needed at times,
perhaps, by all. Which of the little children of a virtuous house-
hold can conceive of his entering into his parent's pursuits, or in-
terfering with them 1 How sacred are the study and the office,
the apparatus of a knowledge and a power which he can only
venerate ! Which of these little ones dreams of disturbing the
course of his parent's thought or achievement 1 Which of them
conceives of the daily routine of the household — its going forth
and coming in, its rising and its rest — having been different
before his birth, or that it would be altered by his absence 1 It
is even a matter of surprise to him when it now and then occurs
to him that there is anything set apart for him — that he has
clothes and couch, and that his mother thinks and cares for him.
If he lags behind in a walk, or finds himself alone among the
trees, he does not dream of being missed ; but home rises up
before him as he has always seen it — his father thoughtful, his
mother occupied, and the rest gay, with the one difference of his

H. MARTINEAU.] MOVING ONWARD.

167

not being there. This he believes, and has no other trust than
in his shriek of terror, for being ever remembered more. Yet, all
the while, from day to day, from year to year, without one
moment's intermission, is the providence of his parent around
him, brooding over the workings of his infant spirit, chastening
his passions, nourishing his affections — now troubling it with
salutary pain, now animating it with even more wholesome
delight. All the while is the order of household affairs regulated
for the comfort and profit of these lowly little ones, though they
regard it reverently, because they cannot comprehend it. They
may not know of all this — how their guardian bends over their
pillow nightly, and lets no word of their careless talk drop un-
heeded, and records every sob of infant grief, hails every bright-
ening gleam of reason and every chirp of childish glee — they may
not know this, because they could not understand it aright, and
each little heart would be inflated with pride, each little mind
would lose the grace and purity of its unconsciousness ; but the
guardianship is not the less real, constant, and tender, for its being
unrecognised by its objects. As the spirit expands, and perceives
that it is one of an innumerable family, it would be in danger of
sinking into the despair of loneliness if it were not capable of

" Belief

In mercy carried infinite degrees
Beyond the tenderness of human hearts,"

while the very circumstance of multitude obviates the danger of
undue elation. But, though it is good to be lowly, it behoves
every one to be sensible of the guardianship of which so many
evidences are around all who breathe. While the world and life
roll on and on, the feeble reason of the child of Providence may
be at times overpowered by the vastness of the system amidst
which he lives ; but his faith will smile upon his fear, rebuke him
for averting his eyes, and inspire him with the thought, " Nothing
can crush me, for I am made for eternity. I will do, suffer, and
enjoy, as my Father wills ; and let the world and life roll on ! "
Such is the faith which supports, which alone can support, the

1 68 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. UOHN WILSON.

many who, having been whirled into the eddying stream of social
affairs, are withdrawn by one cause or another, to abide in some
still little creek, the passage of the mighty tide. The broken-
down statesman, who knows himself to be spoken of as politically
dead, and sees his successors at work, building on his foundations,
without more than a passing thought on him who had laboured
before them, has need of this faith. The aged, who find affairs
proceeding at the will of the young and hardy, whatever the gray-
haired may think and say, have need of this faith. So have the
sick, when they find none but themselves disposed to look on
life in the light which comes from beyond the grave. So have
the persecuted, when, with or without cause, they see themselves
pointed at in the street ; and the despised, who find themselves
neglected whichever way they turn. So have the prosperous,
during those moments which must occur to all, when sympathy
fails, and means to much desired ends are wanting, or when
satiety makes the spirit roam abroad in search of something-
better than it has found. This universal, eternal, filial relation,
is the only universal and eternal refuge. It is the solace of
royalty weeping in the inner chambers of its palaces, and of
poverty drooping beside its cold hearth. It is the glad tidings
preached to the poor, and in which all must be poor in spirit
to have part. If they be poor in spirit, it matters little what is
their external state, or whether the world, which rolls on beside
or over them, be the world of a solar system, or of a conquering
empire, or of a small-souled village.

?10.— gjwrfjf&I Jfrattirsjjip.

JOHN WILSON.

SUBLIME solitudes of our boyhood ! where each stone in the
desert was sublime, unassociated though it was with dreams of
memory, in its own simple native power over the human heart !
Each sudden breath of wind passed by us like the voice of a

JOHN WILSON.]

YOUTHFUL FRIENDSHIP.

169

spirit. There were strange meanings in the clouds — often so like
human forms and faces threatening us off, or beckoning us on,
with long black arms, back into the long-withdrawing wilderness
of heaven. We wished then, with quaking bosoms, that we had
not been all alone in the desert — that there had been another
heart, whose beatings might have kept time with our own, that we
might have gathered courage in the silent and sullen gloom from
the light in a brother's eye — the smile on a brother's countenance.
And often had we such a friend in these our far-off wanderings,
over moors and mountains, by the edge of lochs, and through the

umbrage of the old pine-woods. A friend from whom " we had
received his heart and given him back our own," — such a friend-
ship as the most fortunate and the most happy — and at that time
we were both — are sometimes permitted by Providence, with all
the passionate devotion of young and untamed imagination, to
enjoy, during a bright dreamy world, of which that friendship is
as the polar star. Emilius Godfrey ! for ever holy be the name !
a boy when we were but a child — when we were but a youth, a
We felt stronger in the shadow of his arm — happier, bolder,

man.

better in the light of his countenance. He was the protector —

1 70 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QOHN WILSON.

the guardian of our moral being. In our pastimes we bounded
with wilder glee — at our studies we sat with intenser earnestness,
by his side. He it was that taught us how to feel all those glori-
ous sunsets, and imbued our young spirit with the love and wor-
ship of nature. He it was that taught us to feel that our evening
prayer was no idle ceremony to be hastily gone through — that
we might lay down our head on the pillow, then soon smoothed
in sleep — but a command of God, which a response from nature
summoned the humble heart to obey. He it was who for ever
had at command, wit for the sportive, wisdom for the serious
hour. Fun and frolic flowed in the merry music of his lips — they
lightened from the gay glancing of his eyes — and then, all at
once, when the one changed its measures, and the other gathered,
as it were, a mist or a cloud, an answering sympathy chained our
own tongue, and darkened our own countenance, in intercom-
munion of spirit felt to be, indeed, divine ! It seemed as if we
knew but the words of language — that he was a scholar who saw
into their very essence. The books we read together were, every
page, and every sentence of every page, all covered over with
light. Where his eye fell not as we read, all was dim or dark,
unintelligible, or with imperfect meanings. Whether we perused
with him a volume writ by a nature like our own, or the volume
of the earth and the sky, or the volume revealed from heaven,
next day we always knew and felt that something had been added
to our being. Thus imperceptibly we grew up in our intellectual
stature, breathing a purer moral and religious air ; with all our
finer affections towards other human beings, all our kindred and
our kind, touched with a dearer domestic tenderness, or with
a sweet benevolence that seemed to our ardent fancy to embrace
the dwellers in the uttermost regions of the earth. No secret of
pleasure or pain — of joy or grief — of fear or hope — had our heart
to withhold or conceal from Emilius Godfrey. He saw it as it
beat within our bosom, with all its imperfections — may we ven-
ture to say, with all its virtues. A repented folly — a confessed
fault — a sin for which we were truly contrite — a vice flung from us
with loathing and with shame — in such moods as these, happier

JOHN WILSON.] YO UTHFUL FRIENDSHIP. 1 7 !

were we to see his serious and his solemn smile than when in
mirth and merriment we sat by his side, in the social hour, on a
knoll in the open sunshine. And the whole school were in ecsta-
sies to hear tales and stories from his genius ; even like a flock
of birds chirping in their joy, all newly alighted in a vernal land.
In spite of that difference in our age — or oh ! say rather because
that very difference did touch the one heart with tenderness,
and the other with* reverence ! how often did we two wander,
like elder and younger brother, in the sunlight and the moon-
light solitudes ! Woods into whose inmost recesses we should
have quaked alone to penetrate, in his company were glad as
gardens, through their most awful umbrage ; and there was
beauty in the shadows of the old oaks. Cataracts, in whose
lonesome thunder, as it pealed into those pitchy pools, we durst
not, by ourselves, have faced the spray — in his presence, dinned
with a merry music in the desert, and cheerful was the thin mist
they cast sparkling up into the air. Too severe for our uncom-
panied spirit, then easily overcome with awe, was the solitude of
those remote inland lochs. But as we walked with him along the
winding shores, how passing sweet the calm of both blue depths —
how magnificent the white-crested waves, tumbling beneath the
black thunder-cloud ! More beautiful, because our eyes gazed on
it along with his, at the beginning or the ending of some sudden
storm, the Apparition of the Rainbow. Grander in its wildness,
that seemed to sweep at once all the swinging and stooping woods
to our ear, because his too listened, the concerto by winds and
waves played at midnight when not one star was in the sky.
With him we first followed the Falcon in her flight — he showed
us on the Echo-cliff the Eagle's-eyry. To the thicket he led us,
where lay couched the lovely-spotted Doe, or showed us the mild-
eyed creature browsing on the glade with her two fawns at her
side. But for him we should not then have seen the antlers of
the red-deer, for the forest was indeed a most savage place, and
haunted — such was the superstition at which those who scorned
it trembled — haunted by the ghost of a huntsman whom a jealous
rival had murdered as he stooped, after the chase, at a little moun-

172 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QOHN WILSON.

tain well that ever since oozed out blood. What converse passed
between us two in all those still shadowy solitudes ! Into what
depths of human nature did he teach our wandering eyes to look
down ! Oh ! what was to become of us, we sometimes thought
in sadness that all at once made our spirits sink — like a lark fall-
ing suddenly to earth, struck by the fear of some unwonted shadow
from above — what was to become of us when the mandate should
arrive for him to leave the Manse for ever, and sail away in a ship
for India never more to return ! Ever as that dreaded day drew
nearer, more frequent was the haze in our eyes ; and in our blind-
ness we knew not that such tears ought to have been far more
rueful still, for that he then lay under orders for a longer and
more lamentable voyage — a voyage over a narrow strait to the
eternal shore. All — all at once he drooped : on one fatal morn-
ing the dread decay began — with no forewarning, the springs on
which his being had so lightly, so proudly, so grandly moved—
gave way. Between one Sabbath and another his bright eyes dark-
ened— and while all the people were assembled at the sacrament,
the soul of Emilius Godfrey soared up to heaven. It was indeed
a dreadful death ; serene and sainted though it were — and not a
hall — not a house — not a hut — not a shieling within all the circle
of those wide mountains, that did not on that night mourn as if
it had lost a son. All the vast parish attended his funeral —
Lowlanders and Highlanders, in their own garb of grief. And
have time and tempest now blackened the white marble of that
monument — is that inscription now hard to be read — the name of
Emilius Godfrey in green obliteration — nor haply one surviving
who ever saw the light of the countenance of him there interred !
Forgotten as if he had never been ! for few were that glorious
orphan's kindred — and they lived in a foreign land — forgotten
but by one heart ; faithful through all the chances and changes of
this restless world ! And therein enshrined, amongst all its holiest
remembrances, shall be the image of Emilius Godfrey, till it too,
like his, shall be but dust and ashes !

Oh ! blame not boys for so soon forgetting one another in
absence or in death. Yet forgetting is not just the very word ;

JOHN WILSON.] YOUTHFUL FRIENDSHIP. 173

call it rather a reconcilement to doom and destiny — in thus obey-
ing a benign law of nature that soon streams sunshine over the
shadows of the grave. Not otherwise could all the ongoings of
this world be continued. The nascent spirit outgrows much in
which it once found all delight; and thoughts delightful still,
thoughts of the faces and the voices of the dead, perish not, lying
sometimes in slumber — sometimes in sleep. It belongs not to
the blessed season and genius of youth to hug to its heart useless
and unavailing griefs. Images of the well-beloved, when they
themselves are in the mould, come and go, no unfrequent visitants,
through the meditative hush of solitude. But our main business
— our prime joys and our prime sorrows — ought to be — must be
with the living. Duty demands it ; and Love, who would pine
to death over the bones of the dead, soon fastens upon other
objects with eyes and voices to smile and whisper an answer to
all his vows. So was it with us. Ere the midsummer sun had
withered the flowers that spring had sprinkled over our Godfrey's
grave, youth vindicated its own right to happiness ; and we felt
that we did wrong to visit, too often, that corner of the kirkyard.
No fears had we of any too oblivious tendencies ; in our dreams
we saw him — most often all alive as ever — sometimes a phantom
away from that grave ! If the morning light was frequently hard
to be endured, bursting suddenly upon us along with the feeling
that he was dead, it more frequently cheered and gladdened us
with resignation, and sent us forth a fit playmate to the dawn that
rang with all sounds of joy. Again we found ourselves angling
down the river, or along the loch — once more following the flight
of the Falcon along the woods — eyeing the Eagle on the Echo-
cliff. Days passed by, without so much as one thought of Emilius
Godfrey — pursuing our pastime with all our passion, reading our
books intently — just as if he had never been ! But often and
often, too, we thought we saw his figure coming down the hill
straight towards us — his very figure — we could not be deceived —
but the love-raised ghost disappeared on a sudden — the grief-
worn spectre melted into the mist. The strength that formerly
had come from his counsels, now began to grow up of itself

174 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DONNE.

within our own unassisted being. The world of nature became
more our own, moulded and modified by all our own feelings and
fancies ; and with a bolder and more original eye we saw the
smoke from the sprinkled cottages, and saw the faces of the
mountaineers on their way to their work, or coming and going to
the house of God.

211.— f 0Jg

DONNE.

[CowLEY was called by Dr Johnson the last and the best of the metaphysical
poets. He enumerates Donne amongst them, and quotes some of his " quaint
conceits." There is no writer in our language who is such a master of the
subtleties of thought as he whose "Holy Sonnets" we now extract; but at
the same time there are few authors who excel him in strength and fervour.
The life of John Donne has been written by Izaak Walton. He entered the
church late in life, and died Dean of St Paul's, in his fifty-fourth year, being
born in 1573.]

I. — Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay 1
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste j
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way ;
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it t'w;ards hell doth weigh,
Only Thou art above, and when t'wards Thee
By Thy leave I can look, I rise again ;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour myself I can sustain ;
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And Thou like adamant draw mine iron heart

II. — As due, by many titles, I resign

Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made

DONNE. ] HOL Y SONNE TS. 175

By Thee and for Thee ; . and, when I was decayed,

Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine ;

I am Thy son, made with Thyself to shine,

Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repayed,

Thy sheep, Thine image, and, till I betrayed

Myself, a temple of Thy Spirit divine.

Why doth the devil then usurp on me ?

Why doth he steal, nay ravish, that's Thy right?

Except Thou rise, and for Thine own work fight,

Oh ! I shall soon despair, when I shall see

That Thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,

And Satan hates me, yet is loath to lose me.

IIL — Oh ! might these sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain •
In mine idolatry what show'rs of rain
Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?
That sufferance was my sin I now repent ;
'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain.
Th' hydropic drunkard and night-scouting thief,
The itchy lecher and self-tickling proud,
Have the remembrance of past joys, for relief
Of coming ills. So poor me is allowed
No ease ; for long, yet vehement, grief hath been
Th' effect and cause — the punishment and sin.

IV. — Oh ! my black soul, now thou art summoned
By sickness, Death's herald and champion ;
Thou 'rt like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled ;
Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read,
Wisheth himself delivered from prison ;
But, damn'd and haul'd to execution,
Wisheth that still he might b' imprisoned :

176 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DONNE.

Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack ;

But who shall give thee that grace to begin ?

Oh ! make thyself with holy mourning black,

And red with blushing, as thou art with sin :

Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might,

That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

V. — I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements and an angelic spright ;
But black sin hath betrayed to endless night
My world's both parts, and, oh ! both parts must die.
You, which beyond that heav'n, which was most high,
Have found new spheres, and of new land can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly;
Or wash it if it must be drown'd no more :
But, oh ! it must be burnt ; alas ! the fire
Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler : let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.

VI. — This is my play's last scene, here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage's last mile ; and my race,
Idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace,
My span's last inch, my minute's latest point ;
And gluttonous Death will instantly unjoint
My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space ;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face
Whose fear already shakes my every joint :
Then as my soul to heav'n, her first seat, takes flight,
And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
So fall my sins, that all may have their right,
To where they 're bred, and would press me to hell
Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil ;
For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

DONNE. ] HOL Y SONNE TS. \ 7 ]

VII. — At the round earth's imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow;
All, whom war, death, age, ague's tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain ; and you, whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ;
For, if above all these my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this holy ground
Teach me how to repent : for that's as good
As if Thou hadst sealed my pardon with Thy blood.

VIII. — If faithful souls be alike glorified

As angels, then my father's soul doth see,

And adds this ev'n to full felicity,

That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride :

But if our minds to these souls be descryed

By circumstances and by sighs, that be

Apparent in us not immediately,

How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried 1

They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,

And style blasphemous conjurers to call

On Jesus' name, and pharisaical

Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn,

O pensive soul, to God ; for He knows best

thy grief, for He put it into my breast.

IX. — If poisonous minerals, and if that tree

Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us,
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious,
Cannot be damned, alas ! why should I be 1
Why should intent or reason, born in me,
Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous ?

VOL. III. M

178 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DONNE.

And mercy being easy and glorious

To God, in His stern wrath, why threatens He 1

But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee1?

0 God, oh ! of Thine only worthy blood,
And my tears, make a heav'nly Lethean flood,
And drown in it my sin's black memory :

That Thou remember them, some claim as debt ;

1 think it mercy, if Thou wilt forget.

X. — Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure ; then from thee much more must flow :
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery,
Thou 'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou, then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally;
And death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die.

XI. — Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side,
Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me ;
For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd ; and only He,
Who could do no iniquity, hath died ;
But by my death cannot be satisfied
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety:
They killed once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify Him daily, being now glorified.
Oh, let me then His strange love still admire :
Kings pardon, but He bore our punishment;
And Jacob came, clothed in vile harsh attire,
But to supplant, and with gainful intent :

DONNE.] HOL Y SONNE TS. j y Q

God clothed Himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

XII. — Why are we by all creatures waited on ?
Why do the prodigal elements supply
Life and food to me, being more pure than I,
Simpler and further from corruption 1
Why brook' st thou, ignorant horse, subjection 1
Why do you, bull and boar, so sillily
Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die,
Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon 1
Weaker I am, woe 's me ! and worse than you ;
You have not sinned, nor need be timorous,
But wonder at a greater, for to us
Created nature doth these things subdue !
But their Creator, whom sin nor nature tied,
For us, His creatures and His foes, hath died.

XIII. — What if this present were the world's last night 1
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether His countenance can thee affright !
Tears in His eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills His frowns, which from His pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which pray'd forgiveness for His foes' fierce spite ?
No, no ; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour ; so I say to thee :
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd,
This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind.

XIV. — Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend :
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

l8o HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DONNE.

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour t' admit you, but oh, to no*end ;
Reason, your viceroy in me, we should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue ;
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me , for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free j
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

XV.— Wilt thou love God as He thee ? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heav'n, doth make His temple in thy breast ;
The Father having begot a Son most bless'd,
And still begetting, (for He ne'er begun,)
Had deign'd to choose thee by adoption,
Co-heir to His glory, and Sabbath's endless rest,
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stolen stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again :
The Son of glory came down and was slain,
Us whom He had made and Satan stole t' unbind ;
'Twas much that man was made like God before ;
But, that God should be made like man, much more.

XVI.— Father, part of His double interest

Unto Thy kingdom Thy Son gives to me ;

His jointure in the knotty Trinity

He keeps, and gives to me His death's conquest.

This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blessed,

Was from the world's beginning slain ; and He

Hath made two wills, which with the legacy

Of His and Thy kingdom, Thy sons invest :

Yet such are these laws that men argue yet

SiRG. MACKENZIE.] LUXURY.

Whether a man those statutes can fulfil ;

None doth ; but Thy all-healing grace and Spirit

Revive again what law and letter kill :

Thy law's abridgment and Thy last command

Is all but love ; oh let this last will stand !

FROM THE FRENCH OF DESBARREAUX.

H. K. WHITE.
THY judgments, Lord, are just; Thou lovest to wear

The face of pity and of love divine ;
But mine is guilt — Thou must not, canst not, spare,

While Heaven is true, and equity is Thine.
Yes, O my God ! such crimes as mine, so dread,

Leave but the choice of punishment to Thee ;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,

And even Thy mercy dares not plead for me !
Thy will be done — since 'tis Thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite — it is time — though endless death ensue,

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
But on what spot shall fall Thine anger's flood,
That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood ?

212.—

SIR G. MACKENZIE.

[SiR GEORGE MACKENZIE, who filled the distinguished post of King's
Advocate in Scotland, was born at Dundee in 1636, and died in 1691. He
has the reputation of being among the first Scotsmen who wrote the English
language with purity. The following extract is from a treatise published after
his death, and dedicated by him to the University of Oxford, entitled, "The
Moral History of Frugality. "]

One might reasonably have thought that as the world grew
older luxury would have been more shunned ; for the more men

1 82 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [Sm G. MACKENZIE.

multiplied, and the greater their dangers grew, they should have
been the more easily induced to shun all expense, that they might
the more successfully provide against tho§e inconveniences. But
yet it proved otherwise, and luxury was the last of all vices that
prevailed over mankind ; for after riches had been hoarded up,
they rotted, as it were, into luxury ; and after that tyranny and
ambition had robbed many poor innocents, luxury, more cruel
than they, was made use of by Providence to revenge their
quarrel, and so triumphed over the conquerors. Thus, when
Rome had by wit and courage subdued the world, it was drowned
in that inundation of riches which these brought upon it.

This voice has its own masks and disguises too ; for it trans-
forms itself into virtue, whilst, like that, it runs faster from avarice,
and laughs more loudly at it than liberality itself does, and to that
height that it seems to be angry at liberality, as being only a kind
of niggardliness. It pretends to keep open table to those who
starve, and to have an open purse always for men of merit.
Beauty and learning are its pensioners, and all manner of diver-
tisements are still in his retinue. It obliges the peaceable to
favour it, as an enemy to everything that is uneasy; and it
engages men of parts to speak for it, because, whilst it lavishes
the treasures others have hoarded up, it feeds the hope and expec-
tations of such as were provided by nature of nothing but a stock
of wit. And there being seldom other matches betwixt liberality
and prodigality but such as are to be measured by exact reflec-
tions upon the estates of the spenders, it sometimes praises that
as liberality which ought to be condemned as luxury ; and even
where the transgression may be discerned, the bribed and inte-
rested multitude will not acknowledge that liberality, by exceed-
ing its bounds, has lost its name. Some, also, from the same
principle, authorise this vice by the pretext of law, crying out
that every man should have liberty to dispose of his own as he
pleases, and by the good of commerce, saying, with a serious face,
that frugality would ruin all trade, and if no man spent beyond
his measure riches would not circulate; nor should virtuous,
laborious, or witty men find in this circulation occasions to excite

SIR G. MACKENZIE.] L UXUR Y. j 83

or reward their industry. And from this, probably, flows the law
of England's not interdicting prodigals, denying him the adminis-
tration of his own estate, as the laws of all other nations do.

The great arguments that weigh with me against luxury are,
first, that luxury disorders, confounds, and is inconsistent with
that just and equal economy, whereby God governs the world as
His own family, in which all men are but children or servants ;
for as the avaricious hoards up for one that which should be dis-
tributed among many, so, in luxury, one vicious man spends upon
himself what should maintain many hundreds ; and he surfeits to
make them starve. This is not to be a steward, but master. Nor
can we think that the wise and just Judge of all things will suffer,
in His beautiful world, what the most negligent and imprudent
amongst us could not surfer in his private family.

The second argument is, that nature should be man's chief
rule in things relating to this world ; and reason his great direc-
tor, under God, in making use of that rule, and the eyes (as
it were) by which we are to see how to follow it. By this
nature teaches us how to proportion the means to the end,
and not to employ all the instruments whereby such an end
may be procured, but only such as are necessary and suit-
able for the procuring of it, which proportion luxury neither
understands nor follows; and therefore we must conclude it
unnatural and unreasonable, and that frugality is the true mathe-
matics of moral philosophy : and by this we may condemn,
not only such as Senecio was in the Roman History, who de-
lighted to have his clothes and his shoes twice as large as
were fit for his body and feet, which the luxurious laughed
at with others ; but even such as keep twice as great tables,
build twice as great houses, pay twice as many servants as are
fit for them, are as mad as he. For though that disproportion
be not so very perceptible as the other, because the bulk of a
man's estate is not so easily measured and known as that of his
person, and because there are twice as many fools of this kind as
there are of the other, so that reason is out-voted though it can-
not be answered, yet the folly is the same everywhere; and in this

184 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SiR G. MACKENZIE.

it is more dangerous, that Senecio wronged only himself, whilst
they oft-times wrong and ruin both their posterity and neighbours.
Thus I have seen a man, otherwise judicious enough, much sur-
prised when it was represented that his building, though it seemed
to him and many others to carry no great disproportion to his
estate, yet would, in forty-four years, (which is but a short time,)
equal his estate, allowing the interest of his money to equal the
capital sum in the space of eleven years and a-half, which it did
by law; for ;£ioo, forborne for forty-eight years, at six per cent.
compound interest, amounts to ^1734, 4s. 2d. And how many
may forbear ^loo1? and this sum, in ten years, which is but a
very short time, will amount to ^2774, 125, by simple multiplica-
tion, without compound interest. We should be proportionable
in our expense, for that which widens a man's fancy in any one
thing makes it extravagant in all things, as they who use their
stomachs to too much of any one meat will make it craving as to
all others. Whereas, on the other hand, that which should ena-
mour men of frugality is, that it accustoms us to reasoning and
proportion, observing exactly the least perceptible proportions,
and the smallest consequences, which makes me call to mind the
remarkable story of the Holland merchant, who, having married
his daughter to a luxurious rich citizen, to the great dissatisfaction
of his wife, she came the next day to the bride and bridegroom,
and offered them the egg of a turkey hen, and desired her daugh-
ter to use herself, in exactly looking to the product of that egg,
to consider the great things which frugality can do in other
matters. But, her husband and she having laughed at the lesson,
the mother improved so far the egg, that within twenty years the
advantage of it and the luxury of that married couple grew so
fast, that they needed the meanest assistance, and the product of
the egg afforded a comfortable one; for with the considerable
sum that was gathered by it they stocked themselves anew, and
by the help of the (formerly slighted) lesson of not despising the
meanest things, raised themselves again to a very considerable
estate. And if any man will but consider yearly what he super-
fluously spends, and how much that would multiply in process of

SIR G. MACKENZIE.] L UXUR Y. 185

time, he will easily perceive that what he spends in the conse-
quence is vastly greater than appears to him in the first calcula-
tion ; as, for instance, if a man who may spend ^500 per annum
does spend £600, this small error of .£100 a-year will amount,
in forty-four years, at six per cent., to the sum of ^£1373, 6s. and
odd pence. And though a man thinks it scarce worth his pains
to manage so as to preserve ,£100, he must be very luxurious
who thinks it not worth his pains to gain the sum of .£1373.
And it is a great defect in our reason, that those ills which follow
as necessary consequence are despised as mean, because the con-
sequences themselves are remote. And as that is the best eye,
so that is likewise the best reason, which sees clearly at a great
distance. Another great error that luxury tempts us to, by not
reasoning exactly, is, that it makes us calculate our estates without
deducting what is payable out of them to the poor, to the king,
and to creditors, before we proportion our expense ; whereas we
should spend only what is truly our own ; and the law, to prevent
luxury, tells us that id tantum nostrum est quod, deductis debitis,
apud nos remanet : That is only ours which remains with us, after
our debts are deducted. Nor will a proportional part of our
estates answer the equivalent of our debts. For, if I owe ^100
a-year, no part of my estate that pays me ;£ioo a-year will pay
it ; for many accidents may hinder me to get my own rent, but
no accident will procure an abatement of my debt. And this
leads me to consider that frugality numbers always the accidents
that may intervene amongst other creditors ; and the wise Hol-
lander observes, that a man should divide his estate in three
parts ; upon one-third he should live, another third he should lay
up for his children, and the last he should lay by for accidents.
There are few men who do not in their experience find that, their
whole life being balanced together, they have lost a third part
always of their revenue by accidents. And most families are de-
stroyed by having the children's provision left as a debt upon
them. So that a man should at least endeavour to live upon the
one half, and leave the other half for his children.
The next argument that discredits luxury with me is., that it occa-

1 86 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Sm G. MACKENZIE.

sions many and great inconveniences, both to him who labours
under it, and to the commonwealth under which he lives.

The luxurious man oppresses that nature which should be the
foundation of his joy ; and, by false reasoning, he is made by this
vice to believe, that because some ease and aliments are pleasant,
therefore, the more he takes of them, the more he will be pleased.
And the first proofs by which he is convinced that he is cheated
in this are those diseases, into which those vices, when they are
swelled, overflow, and destroy that ground which a gentle water-
ing would have refreshed. Then he begins to understand that a
mediocrity is the Golden Rule, and that proportion is to be ob-
served in all the course of our life.

Luxury also makes a man so soft, that it is hard to please him,
and easy to trouble him. So that his pleasures at last become
his burden. Luxury is a nice master, hard to be pleased : Res
est severa voluptas, said he who knew it best. Whereas the frugal
and temperate man can, by fasting till a convenient time, make
any food pleasant ; and is by travelling, when it is convenient,
hardened sufficiently not to be troubled by any ordinary acci-
dents. The luxurious must at last owe to this temperance that
health and ease which his false pleasures have robbed him of ; he
must abstain from his wines, feastings, and fruits, until temperance
has cured him. And I have known many, who after they have
been tortured by the tyranny of luxury, whilst they had riches in
abundance to feed it, become very healthful and strong when they
fell into that poverty which they had so abhorred. Some whereof
have confessed to me, that they never thought themselves so
happy, and that they were never so well pleased, as since they
had escaped the temptations of that dangerous vice. Luxury
does not more ruin a man's body, than it debases his mind ; for
it makes him servilely drudge under those who support his luxury
in pimping to all their vices, flattering all their extravagances, and
executing the most dreadful of their commands. I have oft-times
remarked, with great pleasure, that in commonwealths, where to
be free was accounted the greatest glory, nothing reigned save
frugality, and nothing was rich save the common treasure. But

SIR G. MACKENZIE.] LUXURY. 187

under those monarchies which have degenerated into tyranny,
care is taken to have those who get the public pay spend it luxu-
riously, to the end, that those they employ may still want, and so
may be obliged to that contemptible slavery, to which none would
bow if they could otherwise live. It is also very observable that
those who dwell in the richest countries, which incline men to
luxury, such as Greece and Italy, are poor and slaves ; whereas
the hard rocks of Switzerland breed men who think themselves
rich and happy. I like well his reply, who, being tempted to
comply with what his conscience could not digest, said to him
who tempted him, " I can contentedly walk on foot, but you can-
not live without a coach. I will be advised by my innocency ;
consult you with your grandeur. Rulers can bestow treasures,
but virtue only can bestow esteem."

From these reflections may arise remedies against luxury to any
thinking man : for though when we consider the luxurious as they
shine at courts, live in sumptuous palaces, saluted in the streets,
adorned with panegyrics ; it is probable that most men will think
that philosophers and divines have only writ against luxury, be-
cause they could not attain to the riches that are necessary for
maintaining it : yet, to balance this, let us consider the vast num-
bers of those whom it has drowned in pleasures, others whom it
has sent to starve in prisons, and dragged to scaffolds by its
temptations. I have oft-times seen the luxurious railed at with
much malice by those they had sumptuously entertained, who
envied the entertainer for being able to treat them so highly, and
for living so far above their own condition : concluding, that they
were rather called to be witnesses of the entertainer's abundance
than sharers in his bounty. And though some think to make an
atonement for their oppression, by living sumptuously upon its
spoils ; yet no wise man will pardon a robber, because he gives
back a small share of the great riches he has taken.

Some think riches necessary for keeping great tables, and excuse
this by the hopes they have of good company. And a great man
told me, he wished such a man's estate, that he might keep us all
about him. But my answer was, that the luxurious gathered

1 88 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. fSiR G. MACKENZIE.

about them ordinarily the worst of company ; and worthy men
valued more virtuous conversation than sumptuous diet, which
they rather shunned than followed. I believe there are few so
prodigal of their money, but that they have oft some regrets for
having spent it ; from which the frugal man is exempted, by the
assurance he has from his virtue that he can live happily upon
the little he has, and can with pleasure find, that he is neither
oppressed with the weight of riches, nor terrified by the fear of
want ; breeding up his posterity not to need these great patrimo-
nies, which he cannot give.

This discourse tends not to forbid the use of all pleasure, nor
even the pleasing our senses ; for it is not to be imagined that
God Almighty brought man into the world to admire His great-
ness, and taste His goodness, without allowing Him to rejoice in
these things which he sees and receives. The best way to admire
an artist is to be highly pleased with what he has made ; and a
benefactor is ill rewarded, when the receiver is not pleased with
what is bestowed : his joy being the justest measure and standard
of his esteem. We find that in Eden the tasting of all the sweet
and delicious fruits was allowed, save only that of the Tree of
Knowledge. And why should all these fruits have been made so
pleasant to the eye, and so delicious to the taste, if it had not
been to make man, His beloved guest, happy there 1 And I
really think that the eye has got the quality of not being satisfied
long with any object, nor the ear with hearing any sound, to the
end that they might, by this curiosity, be obliged to seek after
that variety in which they may every moment discover new proofs
of their Master's greatness and goodness. But I condemn the
pleasing of the senses only, where more pains is taken, and more
time is spent in gratifying them, than is due to those inferior or
less noble parts of the reasonable creature. The soul being the
nobler and more sublime part, our chief care should be laid out
in pleasing it, as a wise subject should take more care in pleasing
the king than his ministers, and the master than his servants. The
true and allowable luxury of the soul consists in contemplation and
thinking, or else in the practice of virtue, whereby we may employ

SIR G. MACKENZIE.] LUXURY. 189

our time in being useful to others ; albeit, when our senses and other
inferior faculties have served the soul in these great employments,
they ought to be gratified as good servants, but not so as to make
them wild masters, as luxury does, when it rather oppresses than re-
freshes them. I do also think that our chief pleasure should not be
expected from the senses : because they are too dull and inactive
to please a thinking man ; they are only capable to enjoy little,
and are soon blunted by enjoyment : whereas religion and virtue
do, by the ravishing hopes of what we are to expect, or the plea-
sant remembering of what we have done, afford constantly new
scenes of joy, and which are justly augmented by the concurring
testimonies of the best of mankind, who applaud our virtuous
actions and decry the vicious. So that the virtuous man is by as
many degrees pleased beyond the vicious, as the past and future
exceed the single moment of the present time, or as many suf-
frages exceed one. Nor doubt I but those who have relieved a
starving family by their charity have feasted upon the little which
they have bestowed with more joy, than ever Lucullus or Apicius
did in all the delicacies their cooks could invent. I am con-
vinced, that any generous gentleman would be much more
troubled to think that his poor tenants, who toil for him, are
screwed up to some degrees that look too like oppression, than
he could be pleased with any delicacies which that superplus of
rent could buy for him: and that he who has rescued a poor
innocent creature from the jaws of ravenous oppression, finds a
greater joy irradiated on his spirit, by the great and just Judge,
than any general does in that night wherein he has defeated his
enemies merely for his glory. We remember to this day, with
veneration and esteem, John the Baptist's locusts and wild honey;
but the deliciousness of Herod's feasts lasted no longer than the
taste ; and even the pleasure of the present moment, which the
luxurious only enjoy, is much lessened, by the prevailing convic-
tion which arises from that small remaining force, which is still
left in the reasonable faculty of the most corrupted man : and
which can never be so blinded, as not to have some glimmerings
whereby it can discover the ugliness and deformity of vice.

190 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON H ARE.

ARCHDEACON HARE.

[THE following extract is from a remarkable work, " Guesses at Truth, by
Two Brothers." (3d edit.) Those brothers were Julius and Augustus Hare.
For some years after Augustus had "been raised from the earth to the full
fruition of that truth of which he had first been the earnest seeker, and then
the dutiful servant and herald," Julius lived to benefit the world by the exer-
cise of his sacred duties as a pastor. He died in 1855.]

Ridentem dicere verum quid vetat 1* In the first place, all the
sour faces in the world, stiffening into a more rigid asperity at
the least glimpse of a smile. I have seen faces, too, which, so
long as you let them lie in their sleepy torpor, unshaken and
unstirred, have a creamy softness and smoothness, and might
beguile you into suspecting their owners of being gentle : but, it
they catch the sound of a laugh, it acts on them like thunder,
and they also turn sour. Nay, strange as it may seem, there have
been such incarnate paradoxes as would rather see their fellow-
creatures cry than smile.

But is not this in exact accordance with the spirit which pro-
nounces a blessing on the weeper, and a woe on the laugher 1

Not in the persons I have in view. That blessing and woe are
pronounced in the knowledge how apt the course of this world is
to run counter to the kingdom of God. They who weep are
declared to be blessed, not because they weep, but because they
shall laugh: and the woe threatened to the laughers is in like
manner, that they shall mourn and weep. Therefore, they who
have this spirit in them, will endeavour to forward the blessing
and to avert the woe. They will try to comfort the mourner, so
as to lead him to rejoice : and they will warn the laugher, that
he may be preserved from the mourning and weeping, and may
exchange his passing for lasting joy. But there are many who
merely indulge in the antipathy, without opening their hearts to the
sympathy. Such is the spirit found in those who have cast off the
bonds of the lower earthly affections, without having risen as yet
* What forbids one to say what is true in a laughing manner ?

ARCHDEACON HARE.] MIRTH. 191

into the freedom of heavenly love — in those who have stopped
short in the state of transition between the two lives, like so many
skeletons stripped of their earthly, and not yet clothed with a
heavenly, body. It is the spirit of Stoicism, for instance, in
philosophy, and of vulgar Calvinism, which in so many things
answers to Stoicism, in religion. They who feel the harm they
have received from worldly pleasures are prone at first to quarrel
with pleasure of every kind altogether : and it is one of the
strange perversities of our self-will to entertain anger, instead of
pity, towards those whom we fancy to judge or act less wisely
than ourselves. This, however, is only while the scaffolding is
still standing around the edifice of their Christian life, so that
they cannot see clearly out of the windows, and their view is
broken up into disjointed parts. When the scaffolding is removed,
and they look abroad without hindrance, they are readier than
any to delight in all the beauty and true pleasure around them.
They feel that it is their blessed calling not only to rejoice always
themselves, but likewise to rejoice with all ivho do rejoice in inno-
cence of heart. They feel that this must be well-pleasing to Him
who has filled His universe with ever-bubbling springs of glad-
ness ; so that whithersoever we turn our eyes, through earth and
sky as well as sea, we behold the avfyid/JAv y'sXaofta* of nature.
On the other hand, it is the harshness of an irreligious temper
clothing itself in religious zeal, and not seldom exhibiting symp-
toms of mental disorganization, that looks scowlingly on every
indication of happiness and mirth.

Moreover, there is a large class of people who deem the busi-
ness of life far too weighty and momentous to be made light of;
who would leave merriment to children, and laughter to idiots •
and who hold that a joke would be as much out of place on their
lips as on a gravestone or in a ledger. Wit and wisdom being
sisters, not only are they afraid of being indicted for bigamy were
they to wed them both, but they shudder at such a union as in-
cestuous. So, to keep clear of temptation, and to preserve their
faith where they have plighted it, they turn the younger out of
* Boundless laughter.

192 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARE.

doors ; and if they see or hear of anybody taking her in, they
are positive he can know nothing of the elder. They would not
be witty for the world. Now, to escape being so is not very diffi-
cult for those whom nature has so favoured that wit with them is
always at zero, or below it. Or, as to their wisdom, since they
are careful never to overfeed her, she jogs leisurely along the
turnpike-road, with lank and meagre carcase, displaying all her
bones, and never getting out of her own dust. She feels no in-
clination to be frisky, but, if a coach or a waggon passes her, is
glad, like her rider, to run behind a thing so big. Now, all these
people take grievous offence if any one comes near them better
mounted, and they are in a tremor lest the neighing and snorting
and prancing should be contagious.

Surely, however, ridicule implies contempt ; and so the feeling
must be condemnable, subversive of gentleness, incompatible with
kindness ?

Not necessarily so, or universally ; far from it. The word ridi-
cule, it is true, has a narrow, one-sided meaning. From our prone-
ness to mix up personal feelings with those which are more purely
objective and intellectual, we have in great measure restricted the
meaning of ridicule, which would properly extend over the whole
region of the ridiculous, the laughable, where we may disport our-
selves innocently, without any evil emotion ; and we have narrowed
it, so that in common usage it mostly corresponds to derision,
which does indeed involve personal and offensive feelings. As
the great business of wisdom in her speculative office is to detect
and reveal the hidden harmonies of things, those harmonies which
are the sources and the ever-flowing emanations of Law, the
dealings of Wit, on the other hand, are with incongruities. And
it is the perception of incongruity flashing upon us, when unac-
companied, as Aristotle observes, (Poet. c. v.,) by pain, or by any
predominant moral disgust, that provokes laughter, and excites
the feeling of the ridiculous. But it no more follows that the per-
ception of such an incongruity must breed or foster haughtiness
or disdain, than that the perception of anything else that may be
erroneous or wrong should do so. You might as well argue that

ARCHDEACON HARE.] MIRTH. 193

a man must be proud and scornful because he sees that there is
such a thing as sin or such a thing as folly in the world. Yet,
unless we blind our eyes, and gag our ears, and hoodwink our
minds, we shall seldom pass through a day without having some
form of evil brought in one way or other before us. Besides, the
perception of incongruity may exist, and may awaken laughter,
without the slightest reprobation of the object laughed at. We
laugh at a pun, surely without a shade of contempt either for the
words punned upon or for the punster ; and if a very bad pun be
the next best thing to a very good one, this is not from its flatter-
ing any feeling of superiority in us, but because the incongruity is
broader and more glaring. Nor, when we laugh at a droll com-
bination of imagery, do we feel any contempt, but often admira-
tion at the ingenuity shown in it, and an almost affectionate
thankfulness toward the person by whom we have been amused,
such as is rarely excited by any other display of intellectual power,
as those who have ever enjoyed the delight of Professor Sedg-
wick's society will bear witness.

It is true, an exclusive attention to the ridiculous side of things
is hurtful to the character, and destructive of earnestness and
gravity. But no less mischievous is it to fix our attention ex-
clusively, or even mainly, on the vices and other follies of man-
kind. Such contemplations, unless counteracted by wholesomer
thoughts, harden or rot the heart, deaden the moral principle, and
make us hopeless and reckless. The objects toward which we
should turn our minds habitually are those which are great, and
good, and pure ; the throne of virtue, and she who sits upon it ;
the majesty of truth, the beauty of holiness. This is the spiritual
sky through which we should strive to mount, " springing from
crystal step to crystal step," and bathing our souls in its living,
life-giving ether. These are the thoughts by which we should
whet and polish our swords for the warfare against evil, that the
vapours of the earth may not rust them. But in a warfare against
evil, under one or other of its forms, we are all of us called to
engage : and it is a childish dream to fancy that we can walk
about among mankind without perpetual necessity of remarking
VOL. in. N

IQ4 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARE.

that the world is full of many worse incongruities besides those
which make us laugh.

Nor do I deny that a laugher may often be a scoffer and a
scorner. Some jesters are fools of a worse breed than those who
used to wear the cap. Sneering is commonly found along with
a bitter splenetic misanthropy; or it may be a man's mockery
at his own hollow heart, venting itself in mockery at others.
Cruelty will try to season or to palliate its atrocities by derision.
The hyena grins in its den ; most wild beasts over their prey.
But though a certain kind of wit, like other intellectual gifts, may
coexist with moral depravity, there has often been a playfulness
in the best and greatest men — in Phocion, in Socrates, in Luther,
in Sir Thomas More — which, as it were, adds a bloom to the
severer graces of their character, shining forth with amaranthine
brightness when storms assail them, and springing up in fresh
blossoms under the axe of the executioner. How much is our
affection for Hector increased by his tossing his boy in his arms,
and laughing at his childish fears ! Smiles are the language of
love ; they betoken the complacency and delight of the heart in
the object of its contemplation. , Why are we to assume that
there must needs be bitterness or contempt in them, when they
enforce a truth or reprove an error? On the contrary, some of
those who have been richest in wit and humour have been among
the simplest and kindest-hearted of men. I will only instance
Fuller, Bishop Earle, La Fontaine, Matthes Claudius, Charles
Lamb. " Le mechant n'est jamais comique," is wisely remarked
by De Maistre, when canvassing the pretensions of Voltaire,
(Soirees, i. 273 ;) and the converse is equally true : le comique, le
vrai comique, n'est jamais mechant. A laugh, to be joyous, must
flow from a joyous heart ; but without kindness there can be no
true joy. And what a dull, plodding, tramping clanking would
the ordinary intercourse of society be, without wit to enliven and
brighten it ! When two men meet, they seem to be kept at bay
through the estranging effects of absence, until some sportive,
sally opens their hearts to each other. Nor does anything spread
cheerfulness so rapidly over a whole party, or an assembly of

ARCHDEACON HARE.] MIR TH.

'95

people, however large. Reason expands the soul of the philo-
sopher ; imagination glorifies the poet, and breathes a breath of
spring through the young and genial } but if we take into account
the numberless glances and gleams whereby wit lightens our
every-day life, I hardly know what power ministers so bountifully
to the innocent pleasures of mankind.

Surely, too, it cannot be requisite, to a man's being in earnest,
that he should wear a perpetual frown. Or is there less of sin-
cerity in Nature during her gambols in spring, than during the
stiffness and harshness of her wintry gloom 1 Does not the bird's
blithe carolling come from the heart quite as much as the quad-
ruped's monotonous cry? And is it then altogether impossible
to take up one's abode with Truth, and to let all sweet homely
feelings grow about it and cluster around it, and to smile upon
it as on a kind father or mother, and to sport with it, and hold
light and merry talk with it, as with a loved brother or sister ; and
to fondle it, and play with it, as with a child 1 No otherwise did
Socrates and Plato commune with Truth ; no otherwise did Cer-
vantes and Shakspere. This playfulness of Truth is beautifully
represented by Landor, in the conversation between Marcus
Cicero and his brother, in an allegory which has the voice and
the spirit of Plato. On the other hand, the outcries of those
who exclaim against every sound more lively than a bray or a
bleat, as derogatory to truth, are often prompted, not so much by
their deep feeling of the dignity of the truth in question, as of the
dignity of the person by whom that truth is maintained. It is
our vanity, our self-conceit, that makes us so sore and irritable.
To a grave argument we may reply gravely, and fancy that we
have the best of it ; but he who is too dull or too angry to smile,
cannot answer a smile, except by fretting and fuming. Olivia lets
us into the secret of Malvolio's distaste for the Clown.

For the full expansion of the intellect, moreover, to preserve it
from that narrowness and partial warp which our proneness to give
ourselves up to the sway of the moment is apt to produce, its
various faculties, however opposite, should grow and be trained
up side by side — should twine their arms together, and strengthen

196 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARE.

each other by love-wrestles. Thus will it be best fitted for dis-
cerning and acting upon the multiplicity of things which the
world sets before it. Thus, too, will something like a balance
and order be upheld, and our minds be preserved from that ex-
aggeration on the one side, and depreciation on the other side,
which are the sure results of exclusiveness. A poet, for instance,
should have much of the philosopher in him ; not, indeed, thrust-
ing itself forward at the surface — this would only make a monster
of his work, like the Siamese twins, neither one thing nor two —
but latent within : the spindle should be out of sight, but the web
should be spun by the Fates. A philosopher, on the other hand,
should have much of the poet in him. A historian cannot be
great without combining the elements of the two minds. A
statesman ought to unite those of all the three. A great religious
teacher, such as Socrates, Bernard, Luther, Schleiermacher, needs
the statesman's practical power of dealing with men and things,
as well as the historian's insight into their growth and purpose.
He needs the philosopher's ideas, impregnated and impersonated
by the imaginations of the poet. In like manner our graver
faculties and thoughts are much chastened and bettered by a
blending and interfusion of the lighter, so that "the sable cloud"
may "turn her silver lining on the night;" while our lighter
thoughts require the graver to substantiate them and keep them
from evaporating. Thus Socrates is said, in Plato's " Banquet,"
to have maintained that a great tragic poet ought likewise to be
a great comic poet : an observation the more remarkable, because
the tendency of the Greek mind, as at once manifested in their
Polytheism, and fostered by it, was to insulate all its ideas ; and
as it were to split up the intellectual world into a cluster of
Cyclades ; whereas the appetite of union and fusion, often lead-
ing to confusion, is the characteristic of modern times. The
combination, however, was realised in himself, and in his great
pupil; and may, perhaps, have been so to a certain extent in
-^Eschylus, if we may judge from the fame of his satiric dramas.
At all events the assertion, as has been remarked more than once
— for instance by Coleridge ("Remains," ii. 12)— is a wonderful

BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.] THE PAGE'S SCENES IN PHILASTER. 197

prophetical intuition, which has received its fulfilment in Shak-
spere. No heart would have been strong enough to hold the
woe of Lear and Othello, except that which had the unquench-
able elasticity of Falstaff and the " Midsummer Night's Dream."
He, too, is an example that the perception of the ridiculous does
not necessarily imply bitterness and scorn. Along with his in-
tense humour, and his equally intense piercing insight into the
darkest and most fearful depths of human nature, there is still a
spirit of universal kindness, as well as universal justice, pervading
his works ; and Ben Jonson has left us a precious memorial of
him, where he calls him " My gentle Shakspere." This one
epithet sheds a beautiful light on his character : its truth is
attested by his wisdom, which could never have been so perfect
unless it had been harmonised by the gentleness of the dove.
A similar union of the graver and lighter powers is found in
several of Shakspere's contemporaries, and in many others among
the greatest poets of the modern world ; in Boccaccio, in Cer-
vantes, in Chaucer, in Gothe, in Tieck; so was it in Walter
Scott.

214.— Kjf* Image's Sanes far

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

[THE Page's Scenes in " Philaster " have been held unsurpassed in tender
delicacy. It is difficult to quote a scene or scenes from Beaumont and Fletcher
without being offended by some inherent grossness, which is here happily want-
ing. The date of the first play of these dramatists is 1607. Francis Beau-
mont was born in 1586, and died in 1615. John Fletcher was born in 1576,
and died in 1625.]

The story of " Philaster" is that of a rightful heir to a throne falling in love
with the daughter of the usurper. Their affection is disturbed by jealousies
excited by a designing woman, and encouraged by the tyrannical king, but the
lovers are finally happy and triumphant. The page is a lady in disguise, in
love with Philaster. Charles Lamb says, " For many years after the date of
Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found without
one of these women pages in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged
lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival."

198 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BEAUMONT&FLETCHER.

Philaster tells the princess Arethusa how his page became known to him :—

Philaster. I have a boy sent by the gods,
Not yet seen in the court j hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain-side,
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears ;
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,

Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me : but ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon them, he would weep
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story :
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.

BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.] THE PAGE'S SCENES IN PHILASTER. 199

Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify ; and how all, order'd thus,
Express'd his grief: and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wish'd j so that, methought, I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him,
Who was as glad to follow ; and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy,
That ever master kept

Bellario, the page, is told by Philaster that he has preferred him to the ser-
vice of the princess.

Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy ;
Full of regard unto thy tender youth,
For thine own modesty j and, for my sake,
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, ay, or deserve.

Bellario. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing,
And only yet am something by being yours ;
You trusted me unknown ; and that which you are apt
To construe a simple innocence in me,
Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy
Harden'd in lies and theft ; yet ventured you
To part my miseries and me : for which
I never can expect to serve a lady
That bears more honour in her breast than you.

Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee ; thou art young
And bear'st a childish overflowing love
To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet :
But, when thy judgment comes to rule those passions,
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends
That placed thee in the noblest way of life.
She is a princess I prefer thee too.

Bell. In that small time that I have seen the world,
I never knew a man hasty to part
With a servant he thought trusty ; I remember,
My father would prefer the boys he kept

200 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BEAUMONT & FLETCKBR.

To greater men than he, but did it not
Till they were grown too saucy for himself.

Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no^fault at all
In thy behaviour.

Bell. Sir, if I have made
A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ;
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn.
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge ; and if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
For once ; what master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning 1 Let me be corrected,
To break my stubbornness if it be so,
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend.

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay,
That (trust me) I could weep to part with thee.
Alas, I do not turn thee off; thou knowest
It is my business that doth call thee hence ;
And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me :
Think so, and 'tis so ; and when time is full,
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust
Laid on so weak a one, I will again
With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will.
Nay, weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time
Thou didst attend the princess.

Bell. I am gone ;

But since I am to part with you, my lord,
And none knows whether I shall live to do
More service for you, take this little prayer :
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs.
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well ;
And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one. [Exit.

Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is strange :
I have read wonders of it : yet this boy,
For my sake (if a man may judge by looks

BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.] THE PAGE'S SCENES IN PHILASTER. 2OI

And speech,) would outdo story. I may see
A day to pay him for his loyalty.

There is also a fine scene in which Philaster, who has become jealous of
Bellario, discharges him. At length the page throws off her disguise, and
confesses the motive of her conduct : —

My father would oft speak

Your worth and virtue, and as I did grow

More and more apprehensive, I did thirst

To see the man so praised ; but yet all this

Was but a maiden longing, to be lost

As soon as found ; till, sitting in my window,

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god

I thought (but it was you) enter our gates ;

My blood flew out, and back again as fast

As I had put it forth, and suck'd it in

Like breath ; then was I call'd away in haste

To entertain you. Never was a man

Heaved from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, raised

So high in thoughts as I ; you left a kiss

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep

From you for ever ; I did hear you talk

Far above singing ; after you were gone,

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched

What stirred it so. Alas ! I found it love,

Yet far from lust, for could I but have lived

In presence of you, I had had my end.

For this I did delude my noble father

With a feigned pilgrimage, and drest myself

In habit of a boy, and, for I knew

My birth no match for you, I was past hope

Of having you. And understanding well,

That when I made discovery of my sex

I could not stay with you, I made a vow

By all the most religious things a maid

Could call together, never to be known,

Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,

202 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

For other than I seemed ; that I might ever
Abide with you : then sate I by the fount
Where first you took me up.

King. Search out a match
Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowry j and thyself
Wilt well deserve him.

Bell. Never, sir, will I
Marry ; it is a thing within my vow :
But if I may have leave to serve the princess,
To see the virtues of her lord and her,
I shall have hope to live.

215.— ©it % Jttjfmnt ipleasur* ofity
antr Uti^rjr 0f % fflmam

CHALMERS.

[THE following is from Dr Chalmers's Bridge-water Treatise, "The Adap-
tation of External Nature to the Moral and Intellectual Constitution of Man."]

There is a felt satisfaction in the thought of having done what
we know to be right ; and, in counterpart to this complacency of
self-approbation, there is a felt discomfort, amounting often to
bitter and remorseful agony, in the thought of having done what
conscience tells us to be wrong. This implies a sense of the rec-
titude of what is virtuous. But, without thinking of its rectitude
at all, without viewing it in reference either to the law of con-
science or the law of God, with no regard to jurisprudence in the
matter, there is, in the virtuous affection itself, another and a dis-
tinct enjoyment. We ought to cherish and to exercise benevo-
lence ; and there is a pleasure in the consciousness of doing what
we ought : but beside this moral sentiment, and beside the pecu-
liar pleasure appended to benevolence as moral, there is a sensa-
tion in the merely physical affection of benevolence ; and that
sensation, of itself, is in the highest degree pleasurable. The

CHALMERS.] VIRTUOUS AND VICIOUS AFFECTIONS. 203

primary or instant gratification which there is in the direct and
immediate feeling of benevolence is one thing : the second or
reflex gratification which there is in the consciousness of benevo-
lence as moral is another thing. The two are distinct of them-
selves ; but the contingent union of them, in the case of every
virtuous affection, gives a multiple force to the conclusion, that
God is the lover, and, because so, the patron or the rewarder of
virtue. He hath so constituted our nature, that in the very flow
and exercise of the good affections there shall be the oil of glad-
ness. There is instant delight in the first conception of bene-
volence ; there is sustained delight in its continued exercise ;
there is consummated delight in the happy, smiling, and prosper-
ous result of it. Kindness, and honesty, and truth, are of them-
selves, and irrespective of their Tightness, sweet unto the taste of
the inner man. Malice, envy, falsehood, injustice, irrespective of
their wrongness, have, of themselves, the bitterness of gall and
wormwood. The Deity hath annexed a high mental enjoyment,
not to the consciousness only of good affections, but to the very
sense and feeling of good affections. However closely these may
follow on each other — nay, however implicated or blended to-
gether they may be at the same moment into one compound state
of feeling — they are not the less distinct, on that account, of
themselves. They form two pleasurable sensations, instead of
one ; and their opposition, in the case of every virtuous deed or
virtuous desire, exhibits to us that very concurrence in the world
of mind which obtains with such frequency and fulness in the
world of matter, affording, in every new part that is added, not a
simply repeated only, but a vastly multiplied evidence for design,
throughout all its combinations. There is a pleasure in the very
sensation of virtue ; and there is a pleasure attendant on the
sense of its rectitude. These two phenomena are independent
of each other. Let there be a certain number of chances against
the first in a random economy of things, and also a certain num-
ber of chances against the second. In the actual economy of
things, where there is the conjunction of both phenomena, it is
the product of these two numbers which represents the amount

204 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

of evidence afforded by them, for a moral government in the
world, and a moral governor over them.

In the calm satisfactions of virtue, this distinction may not be
so palpable as in the pungent and more vividly felt disquietudes
which are attendant on the wrong affections of our nature. The
perpetual corrosion of that heart, for example, which frets in un-
happy peevishness all the day long, is plainly distinct from the
bitterness of that remorse which is felt, in the recollection of its
harsh and injurious outbreakings on. the innocent sufferers within
its reach. It is saying much for the moral character of God, that
He has placed a conscience within us, which administers painful
rebuke on every indulgence of a wrong affection. But it is say-
ing still more for such being the character of our Maker, so to
have framed our mental constitution that, in the very working of
these bad affections, there should be the painfulness of a felt dis-
comfort and discordancy. Such is the make or mechanism of
our nature, that it is thwarted and put out of sorts by rage, and
envy, and hatred ; and this irrespective of the adverse moral
judgments which conscience passes upon them. Qf themselves,
they are unsavoury ; and no sooner do they enter the heart, than
they shed upon it an immediate distillation of bitterness. Just as
the placid smile of benevolence bespeaks the felt comfort of
benevolence ; so, in the frown and tempest of an angry counte-
nance, do we read the unhappiness of that man who is vexed and
agitated by his own malignant affections, eating inwardly, as they
do, on the vitals of his enjoyment. It is therefore that he is
often styled, and truly, a self-tormentor, or his own worst enemy.
The delight Of virtue, in itself, is a separate thing from the delight
of the conscience which approves it. And the pain of moral evil,
in itself, is a separate thing from the pain inflicted by conscience
in the act of condemning it. They offer to our notice two dis-
tinct ingredients, both of the present reward attendant upon virtue,
and of the present penalty attendant upon vice, and so enhance
the evidence that is before our eyes for the moral character of
that administration under which the world has been placed by its
author. The appetite of hunger is rightly alleged in evidence of

CHALMERS.] VIRTUOUS AND VICIOUS AFFECTIONS. 205

the care wherewith the Deity hath provided for the well-being of
our natural constitution ; and the pleasurable taste of food is
rightly alleged as an additional proof of the same. And so, if
the urgent voice of conscience within, calling us to virtue, be al-
leged in evidence of the care wherewith the Deity hath provided
for the well-being of our moral constitution ; the pleasurable taste
of virtue in itself with the bitterness of its opposite, may well be
alleged as additional evidence thereof. They alike afford the
present and the sensible tokens of a righteous administration, and
so of a righteous God.

Our present argument is grounded neither on the rectitude of
virtue, nor on its utility in the grosser and more palpable sense of
that term, but on the immediate sweetness of it. It is the office
of a conscience to tell us of its rectitude. It is by experience
that we learn its utility. But the sweetness of it, the dulce of
virtue as distinguished from its utile, is a thing of instant sensa-
tion. It may be decomposed into two ingredients, with one of
which conscience has to do — even the pleasure we have, when
any deed or affection of ours receives from her a favourable ver-
dict. But it has another ingredient which forms the proper and
the distinct argument that we are now urging — even the pleasure
we have in the mere relish of the affection itself. If it be a proof
of benevolence in God, that our external organs of taste should
have been so framed as to have a liking for wholesome food, it
is no less the proof both of a benevolent and a righteous God, so
to have framed our mental economy, as that right and wholesome
morality should be palatable to the taste of the inner man. Vir-
tue is not only seen to be right — it is felt to be delicious. There
is happiness in the very wish to make others happy. There is a
heart's ease, or a heart's enjoyment, even in the first purposes of
kindness, as well as in its subsequent performances. There is a
certain rejoicing sense of clearness in the consistency, the exacti-
tude of justice and truth. There is a triumphant elevation of
spirit in magnanimity and honour. In perfect harmony with this,
there is a placid feeling of serenity and blissful contentment in
gentleness and humility. There is a noble satisfaction in those

206 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

victories which, at the bidding of principle, or by the power
of self-command, may have been achieved over the propensities
of animal nature. There is an elate independence of soul, in
the consciousness of having nothing to hide and nothing to be
ashamed of. In a word, by the constitution of our nature, each
virtue has its appropriate charm ; and virtue, on the whole, is a
fund of varied as well as of perpetual enjoyment, to him who hath
imbibed its spirit and is under the guidance of its principles. He
feels all to be health and harmony within, and without he seems
as if to breathe in an atmosphere of beauteous transparency,
proving how much the nature of man and the nature of virtue are
in unison with each other. It is hunger which urges to the use
of food ; but it strikingly demonstrates the care and benevolence
of God, so to have framed the organ of taste as that there shall
be a superadded enjoyment in the use of it It is conscience
which urges to the practice of virtue ; but it serves to enhance
the proof of a moral purpose, and therefore of a moral character
in God, so to have framed our mental economy, that, in addition
to the felt obligation of its Tightness, virtue should of itself be so
regaling to the taste of the inner man.

In counterpart to these sweets and satisfactions of virtue, is the
essential and inherent bitterness of all that is morally evil. We
repeat, that with this particular argument we do not mix up the
agonies of remorse. It is the wretchedness of vice in itself, not
the wretchedness which we suffer because of its recollected and'
felt wrongness, that we now speak of. It is not the painmlness
of the compunction felt because of our anger, upon which we at
this moment insist, but the painfulness of the emotion itself; and
the same remark applies to all the malignant desires of the human
heart. True, it is inseparable from the very nature of a desire,
that there must be some enjoyment or other at the time of its
gratification ; but in the case of these evil affections, it is not un-
mixed enjoyment. The most ordinary observer of his own feel-
ings, however incapable of analysis, must be sensible, even at the
moment of wreaking in full indulgence of his resentment on the
man who has provoked or injured him, that all is not perfect and

CHALMERS.] VIRTUOUS AND VICIOUS AFFECTIONS. 207

entire enjoyment within; but that in this, and indeed in every
other malignant feeling, there is a sore burden of disquietude —
an unhappiness tumultuating in the heart, and visibly pictured on
the countenance. The ferocious tyrant, who has only to issue
forth his mandate, and strike dead at pleasure the victim of his
wrath, with any circumstance too of barbaric caprice and cruelty
which his fancy in the very waywardness of passion unrestrained
and power unbounded might suggest to him — he may be said to
have experienced through life a thousand gratifications in the
solaced rage^ and revenge, which, though ever breaking forth on
some new subject, he can appease again every day of his life by
some new execution. But we mistake it if we think otherwise
than that, in spite of these distinct and very numerous, nay, daily
gratifications, if he so choose, it is not a life of fierce internal
agony notwithstanding. It seems indispensable to the nature of
every desire, and to form part indeed of its very idea, that there
should be a distinctly felt pleasure, or, at least, a removal at the
time of a distinctly felt pain, in the act of its fulfilment — yet,
whatever recreation or relief may have thus been rendered, with-
out doing away the misery, often in the whole amount of it the
intense misery, inflicted upon man by the evil propensities of his
nature. Who can doubt, for example, the unhappiness of the
habitual drunkard ? — and that, although the ravenous appetite by
which he is driven along a stormy career, meets every day, almost
every hour of the day, with the gratification that is suited to it.
The same may be equally affirmed of the voluptuary, or of the
depredator, or of the extortioner, or of the liar. Each may suc-
ceed in the attainment of his specific object; and we cannot
possibly disjoin from the conception of success the conception of
some sort of pleasure — yet in perfect consistency, we affirm, with
a sad and heavy burthen of unpleasantness or unhappiness, on
the whole. He is little conversant with our nature who does not
know of many a passion belonging to it, that it may be the instru-
ment of many pleasurable, nay, delicious or exquisite sensations,
and yet be a wretched passion still — the domineering tyrant of a
bondsman, who at once knows himself to be degraded, and feels

208 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHALMERS.

himself to be unhappy. A sense of guilt is one main ingredient
of this misery; yet physically, and notwithstanding the pleasure
or the relief inseparable at the moment from every indulgence of
the passions, there are other sensations of bitterness, which of
themselves, and apart from remorse, would cause the suffering to
preponderate.

There is an important discrimination made by Bishop Butler in
his sermons, and by the help of which this phenomenon of appar-
ent contradiction or mystery in our nature may be satisfactorily
explained. He distinguishes between the final objept of any of
our desires, and the pleasure attendant on, or rather inseparable
from, its gratification. The object is not the pleasure, though the
pleasure be an unfailing and essential accompaniment on the at-
tainment of the object. This is well illustrated by the appetite of
hunger, of which it were more proper to say that it seeks for food
than that it seeks for the pleasure which there is in eating the
food. The food is the object ; the pleasure is the accompani-
ment. We do not here speak of the distinct and secondary plea-
sure which there is in the taste of food, but of that other pleasure
which strictly and properly attaches to the gratification of the ap-
petite of hunger. This is the pleasure, or relief, which accom-
panies the act of eating • while the ultimate object, the object in
which the appetite rests and terminates, is the food itself. The
same is true of all our special affections. Each has a proper and
peculiar object of its own, and the mere pleasure attendant on the
prosecution of the indulgence of the affection, as has been clearly
established by Butler, and fully reasserted by Dr Thomas Brown,
is not that object. The two are as distinct from each other, as
a thing loved is distinct from the pleasure of loving it. Every
special inclination has its special and counterpart object. The
object of the inclination is one thing j the pleasure of gratifying
the inclination is another ; and, in most instances, it were more
proper to say, that it is for the sake of the object than for the sake
of the pleasure that the inclination is gratified. The distinction
that we now urge, though felt to be a subtle, is truly a substantial
one, and pregnant both with important principle and important

CHALMERS.] VIRTUOUS AND VICIOUS AFFECTIONS. 20Q

application. The discovery and clear statement of it by Butler,
may well be regarded as the highest service rendered by any
philosopher to moral science ; and that, from the light which it
casts both on the processes of the human constitution and on the
theory of virtue. As one example of the latter service, the prin-
ciple in question, so plainly and convincingly unfolded by this
great Christian philosopher in his sermon on " The Love of our
Neighbour," * strikes, and with most conclusive effect, at the root
of the selfish system of morals — a system which professes that
man's sole object, in the practice of all the various moralities, is
his own individual advantage. Now, in most cases of a special,
and more particularly of a virtuous affection, it can be demon-
strated that the object is a something out of himself, and distinct
from himself. Take compassion, for one instance out of the
many. The object of this affection is the relief of another's
misery, and, in the fulfilment of this, does the affection meet with
its full solace and gratification, that is, in a something altogether
external from himself. It is true that there is an appropriate plea-
sure in the indulgence of this affection, even as there is in the in-
dulgence of every other; and in the proportion, too, to the
strength of the affection will be the greatness of the pleasure.
The man who is doubly more compassionate than his fellow will
have doubly a greater enjoyment in the relief of misery ; yet that,
most assuredly, not because he of the two is the more intently set
on his own gratification, but because he of the two is the more
intently set on an outward accomplishment, the relief of another's
wretchedness. The truth is, that, just because more compassion-
ate than his fellow, the more intent is he than the other on the
object of this affection, and the less intent is he than the other on
himself the subject of this affection. His thoughts and feelings
are more drawn away to the sufferers, and therefore more drawn
away//w;* himself. He is the most occupied with the object of
this affection, and on that very account the least occupied with
the pleasure of its indulgence. And it is precisely the objective

* Butler has two sermons on this subject. The sermon to which Dr
Chalmers alludes in this passage is the first of these.

VOL. III. O

210 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [STEELE.

quality of these regards which stamps upon compassion the
character of a disinterested affection. He surely is the most
compassionate whose thoughts and feelings are most drawn away
to the sufferer, and most drawn away from self; or, in other
words, most taken up with the direct consideration of him who is
the object of this affection, and least taken up with the reflex
consideration of the pleasure that he himself has in the indulgence
of it. Yet this prevents not the pleasure from being actually felt ;
and felt, too, in very proportion to the intensity of the compas-
sion ; or, in other words, more felt the less it has been thought of
at the time, or the less it has been pursued for its own sake. It
seems unavoidable in every affection that the more a thing is
loved, the greater must be the pleasure of indulging the love of it;
yet it is equally unavoidable that the greater in that case will be
our aim towards the object of the affection, and the less will be
our aim towards the pleasure which accompanies its gratification.
And thus, to one who reflects profoundly and carefully on these
things, it is no paradox, that he who has had doubly greater enjoy-
ment than another in the exercise of compassion is doubly the
more disinterested of the two ; that he has had the most pleasure
in this affection who has been the least careful to please himself
with the indulgence of it ; that he whose virtuous desires, as be-
ing the strongest, have in their gratification ministered to self
the greatest satisfaction, has been the least actuated of all his fel-
lows by the wishes, and stood at the greatest distance from the
aims, of selfishness.

216.—

STEELE.

[!T has often been a matter of controversy whether, in his inimitable
" Robinson Crusoe," Defoe had not largely availed himself of facts communi-
cated by Alexander Selkirk. Sir Walter Scott has justly said that the story
of Selkirk appears to have furnished Defoe with " little beyond the bare idea
of a man living in an uninhabited island." The story was best told by Sir
Richard Steele, in his periodical paper, "The Englishman." Of course we
do not give this notice as a sufficient specimen of Steele's powers as a writer.

STEELE.] ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 21 1

The readers of "The Tatler" and " Spectator" know that Steele, as he was
the first of our Essayists, has strong claims to be ranked among the best. In

some respects his humour is more rich and genial than that of Addison.

Richard Steele (he was knighted in 1715) was born at Dublin in 1671 j died
in 1729.]

Under the title of this paper, I do not think it foreign to my
design to speak of a man born in her majesty's dominions, and
relate an adventure in his life so uncommon, that it is doubtful
whether the like has happened to any other of the human race.
The person I speak of is Alexander Selkirk, whose name is fa-
miliar to men of curiosity, from the fame of his having lived four
years and four months alone in the island of Juan Fernandez. I
had the pleasure, frequently, to converse with the man soon after
his arrival in England, in the year 1711. It was matter of great
curiosity to hear him, as he is a man of good sense, give an
account of the different revolutions in his own mind in that long
solitude. When we consider how painful absence from company,
for the space of but one evening, is to the generality of mankind,
we may have a sense how painful this necessary and constant
solitude was to a man bred a sailor, and ever accustomed to
enjoy, and suffer, eat, drink, and sleep, and perform all offices of
life in fellowship and company. He was put ashore from a leaky
vessel, with the captain of which he had an irreconcilable differ
ence ; and he chose rather to take his fate in this place, than in a
crazy vessel, under a disagreeable commander. His portion was
a sea-chest, his wearing-clothes and bedding, a firelock, a pound
of gunpowder, a large quantity of bullets, a flint and steel, a few
pounds of tobacco, a hatchet, a knife, a kettle, a Bible, and other
books of devotion ; together with pieces that concerned naviga-
tion, and his mathematical instruments. Resentment against his
officer, who had ill-used him, made him look forward on this
change of life as the more eligible one, till the instant in which he
saw the vessel put off; at which moment his heart yearned within
him, and melted at the parting with his comrades and all human
society at once. He had in provisions for the sustenance of life
but the quantity of two meals. The island abounding only

212 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [STEELE.

with wild goats, cats, and rats, he judged it most probable that
he should find more immediate and easy relief by finding shell-
fish on the shore, than seeking game with iiis gun. He accord-
ingly found great quantities of turtle, whose flesh is extremely
delicious, and of which he frequently ate very plentifully on his
first arrival, till it grew disagreeable to his stomach, except in
jellies. The necessities of hunger and thirst were his greatest
diversions from the reflections on his lonely condition. When
those appetites were satisfied, the desire of society was as strong
a call upon him, and he appeared to himself least necessitous
when he wanted everything ; for the supports of his body were
easily attained, but the eager longings for seeing again the face of
man, during the interval of craving bodily appetites, were hardly
supportable. He grew dejected, languid, and melancholy, scarce
able to refrain from doing himself violence, till by degrees, by
the force of reason, and frequent reading the Scriptures, and
turning his thoughts upon the study of navigation, after the space
of eighteen months, he grew thoroughly reconciled to his condi-
tion. When he had made this conquest, the vigour of his health,
disengagement from the world, a constant cheerful serene sky,
and a temperate air, made his life one continual feast, and his
being much more joyful than it had before been irksome. He,
now taking delight in everything, made the hut in which he lay,
by ornaments which he cut down from a spacious wood on the
side of which it was situated, the most delicious bower, fanned
with continual breezes and gentle aspirations of wind, that made
his repose after the chase equal to the most sensual pleasures.

I forgot to observe, that during the time of his dissatisfaction,
monsters of the deep, which frequently lay on the shore, added
to the terrors of his solitude ; the dreadful howlings and voices
seemed too terrible to be made for human ears : but upon the
recovery of his temper, he could with pleasure not only hear their
voices, but approach the monsters themselves with great intre-
pidity. He speaks of sea-lions, whose jaws and tails were capable
of seizing or breaking the limbs of a man, if he approached them.
But at that time his spirits and life were so high, that he could

STEELE.] ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 213

act so regularly and unconcerned, that merely from being un-
ruffled in himself, he killed tliem with the greatest ease imagin-
able ; for observing that though their jaws and tails were so
terrible, yet the animals being mighty slow in working themselves
round, he had nothing to do but. place himself exactly opposite
to their middle, and as close to them as possible, and he de-
spatched them with his hatchet at will.

The precaution which he took against want, in case of sickness,
was to lame kids when very young, so as that they might recover
their health, but never be capable of speed. These he had in
great numbers about his hut ; and as he was himself in full vigour,
he could take at full speed the swiftest goat running up a promon-
tory, and never failed of catching them but on a descent.

His habitation was extremely pestered with rats, which gnawed
his clothes and feet when sleeping. To defend himself against
them, he fed and tamed numbers of young kitlings, who lay about
his bed, and preserved him from the enemy. When his clothes
were quite worn out, he dried and tacked together the skins of
goats, with which he clothed himself, and was inured to pass
through woods, bushes, and brambles with as much carelessness
and precipitance as any other animal. It happened once to him
that, running on the summit of a hill, he made a stretch to seize
a goat, with which, under him, he fell down a precipice, and lay
senseless for the space of three days, the length of which he
measured by the moon's growth since his last observation. This
manner of life grew so exquisitely pleasant that he never had a
moment heavy upon his hand ; his nights were untroubled and
his days joyous, from the practice of temperance and exercise.
It was his manner to use stated hours and places for exercises of
devotion, which he performed aloud, in order to keep up the
faculties of speech, and to utter himself with greater energy.

When I first saw him, I thought if I had not been let into his
character and story, I could have discerned that he had been
much separated from company, from his aspect and gestures;
there was a strong but cheerful seriousness in his looks, and a
certain disregard to the ordinary things about him, as if he had

214 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [TASSO.

been sunk in thought. When the ship which brought him off the
island came in, he received them with the greatest indifference
with relation to the prospect of going off with them, but with
great satisfaction in an opportunity to help and refresh them.
The man frequently bewailed his return to the world, which could
not, he said, with all its enjoyments, restore him to the tranquil-
lity of his solitude. Though I had frequently conversed with
him, after a few months' absence he met me in the street, and
though he spoke to me, I could not recollect that I had seen
him ; familiar discourse in this town had taken off the loneliness
of his aspect, and quite altered the air of his face.

This plain man's story is a memorable example that he is hap-
piest who confines his want to natural necessities ; and he that
goes further in his desires, increases his want in proportion to his
acquisitions ; or, to use his own expression, " I am now worth
eight hundred pounds, but shall never be so happy as when I was
not worth a farthing/'

217. — IJTxnaliro anir

TASSO.

[THE Life of Torquato Tasso, one of the few great epic poets, is too full ot
romantic incident to be here touched upon. He was born in 1544 ; he died in
1595. His " Gerusalemme Liberata " was published in 1575. The translation
from which our extract is taken is by Edward Fairfax, and first appeared in
1600. It was republished by the editor of "Half-Hours" in l8iS; and is
printed in the series known as " Knight's Weekly Volume."]

The palace great is builded rich and round,

And in the centre of the inmost hold
There lies a garden sweet on fertile ground,

Fairer than that where grew the trees of gold.
The cunning sprites had buildings rear'd around,

With doors and entries false a thousandfold ;
A labyrinth they made that fortress brave,
Like Dedal's prison or Porsenna's grave.

The knights pass'd through the castle's largest gate,
(Though round about a hundred ports there shine,)

TASSO.] RINALDO AND ARMIDA.

The door-leaves, framed of carved silver plate,
Upon their golden hinges turn and twine :

They stay'd to view this work of wit and state,
The workmanship excell'd the substance fine,

For all the shapes in that rich metal wrought,

Save speech, of living bodies wanted nought.

Alcides there sat telling tales, and spun
Among the feeble troops of damsels mild,

(He that the fiery gates of hell had won,
And heaven upheld ;) false Love stood by and smiled ;

Arm'd with his club, fair lole forth run,

His club with blood of monsters foul defiled ;

And on her back his lion's skin had she,

Too rough a bark for such a tender tree.

Beyond was made a sea, whose azure flood
The hoary froth crush'd from the surges blue,

Wherein two navies great well ranged stood
Of warlike ships, fire from their arms out flew j

The waters burnt about their vessels good,
Such flames the gold therein enchased threw ;

Caesar his Romans hence, the Asian kings

Thence Antony and Indian princes, brings :

The Cyclades seem'd to swim amid the main,

And hill 'gainst hill, and mount 'gainst mountain smote ;

With such great fury met those armies twain,
Here burnt a ship, there sunk a bark or boat :

Here darts and wildfire flew, there drown'd or slain
Of princes dead the bodies fleet and float ;

Here Caesar wins, and yonder conquer' d been

The eastern ships, there fled the Egyptian queen :

Antonius eke himself to flight betook,

The empire lost to which he would aspire,

Yet fled not he, nor fight nor fear forsook,
But follow'cl her, drawn on by fond desire :

Well might you see, within his troubled look

Strive and contend love, courage, shame, and ire ;

Oft look'd he back, oft gazed he on the fight,

But oft'ner on his mistress and her flight :

Then in the secret creeks of fruitful Nile,
Cast in her lap he would sad death await,

And in the pleasure of her lovely smile
Sweeten the bitter strokes of cursed fate.

215

2l6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [TASSO.

All this did art with curious hand compile

In the rich metal of that princely gate.
The knights these stories view'd first and last,
Which seen, they forward press'd and in they pass'cL

As through the channel crook'd Meander glides
With turns and twines, and rolls now to and fro,

Whose streams run forth there to the salt sea sides,
Here back return, and to their spring-ward go :

Such crooked paths, such ways this palace hides ;
Yet all the maze their map described so,

That through the labyrinth they go in fine,

As Theseus did by Ariadne's line.

When they had pass'd all those troubled ways,
The garden sweet spread forth her green to shew,

The moving crystal from the fountains plays,

Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs, and flow'rets new,

Sunshiny hills, dales hid from Phoebus' rays,

Groves, arbours, mossy caves, at once they view ;

And that which beauty most, most wonder brought,

No where appear'd the art which all this wrought.

So with the rude the polish'd mingled was

That natural seem'd all and every part
Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass,

And imitate her imitator art.
Mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass,

The trees no whirlwind felt nor tempest's smart,
But ere their fruit drop off the blossom comes ;
This springs, that falls, that rip'neth, and this blooms.

The leaves upon the selfsame bough did hide,

Beside the young, the old and ripen'd fig ;
Here fruit was green, there ripe, with vermeil side,

The apples new and old grew on one twig ;
The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide,

That bended underneath their clusters big;
The grapes were tender here, hard, young, and sour,
There purple, ripe, and neclar sweet forth pour.

The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade,
Sung merry notes on every branch and bough ;

The wind, that in the leaves and waters play'd,
With murmur sweet now sang, and whistled now,

RINALDO AND ARM I DA. 21J

Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made,

And while they sung it rumbled soft and low :
Thus, were it hap or cunning, chance or art,
The wind in this strange music bore his part.

With party-colour'd plumes and purple bill,

A wondrous bird among the rest there flew,
That in plain speech sung lovelays loud and shrill,

Her leden* was like human language true;
So much she talk'd — and with such wit and skill,

That strange it seem'd how much good she knew ;
Her feather' d fellows all stood hush'd to hear,
Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were.

"The gently -budding rose (quoth she) behold,
That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams,

Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth up-fold
In their dear leaves, and less seen fairer seems,

And after spreads them forth more broad and bold,
Then languisheth, and dies in last extremes :

Nor seems the same that deck'd bed and bower

Of many a lady late and paramour :

"So in the passing of a day doth pass

The bud and blossom of the life of man,
Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the grass

Cut down, becometh wither'd, pale and wan :
Oh, gather then the rose while time thou has,

Short is the day, done when it scant began,
Gather the rose of love while yet thou mayst,
Loving be loved, embracing be embraced."

She ceased ; and, as approving all she spoke,

The choir of birds their heavenly tunes renew ;
The turtles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke,

The fowls to shades unseen by pairs withdrew j
It seem'd the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak,

And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,
It seem'd the land, the sea, and heaven above,
All breathed out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love.

Through all this music rare, and strong consent

Of strange allurements, sweet 'bove mean and measure,

Severe, firm, constant, still the knights forth went,
Hard'ning their hearts 'gainst false enticing pleasure,
* Language.

2l8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HERMAN HOOKER.

'Twixt leaf and leaf their sight before they sent,

And after crept themselves at ease and leisure,
Till they beheld the queen sit with their knight
Beside the lake, shaded with bows from sight.

218.— K^ Dietaries 0f

HERMAN HOOKER.

[HERMAN HOOKER, a native of Rutland County, in the State of Vermont,
was ordained in the Episcopal Church of America ; but has retired from the
discharge of his pastoral duties through continued ill-health. He has written
two works — "The Philosophy of Unbelief" and "The Uses of Adversity,"
from the latter of which the following is an extract.]

Love is represented as the fulfilling of the law — a creature's
perfection. All other graces, all divine dispensations, contribute
to this, and are lost in it as in a heaven. It expels the dross of
our nature ; it overcomes sorrow ; it is the full joy of our Lord.

Let us contemplate its capacities and resources as applied to
the experience of life. Property and business may fail, and still
the eye of hope may fix itself on other objects, and confidence
may strengthen itself in other schemes ; but when death enters
into our family, and loved ones are missing from our sight, though
God may have made their bed in sickness, and established their
hope in death, nothing can then relieve us but trust and love.
Philosophy and pleasure do but intrude upon and aggravate our
grief. But love, the light of God, may chase away the gloom of
this hour, and start up in the soul trusts, which give the victory
over ourselves. The harp of the spirit, though its chords be torn,
never yields such sweet notes, such swelling harmony, as when
the world can draw no music from it. How often do we see
strokes fall on the heart, which it would be but mockery for man
to attempt to relieve, and which yet served to unlock the treasures
of that heart, and reveal a sweetness to it which it had not known
before. See that mother ! She loves and mourns as none but a
mother can. Behold the greatness and the sweetness of her
grief! Her child is dead, and she says, " It is well with me, and

[ERMAN HOOKER.] THE VICTORIES OF LOVE. 2 19

: is well with my child. It is well because God has taken him -,
le has said, ' Of such is the kingdom of heaven/ — that He
ioth not willingly afflict j and I know it must be well." Can
here be any greatness greater than this ? Did ever any prince at
he head of invincible armies win a victory like it ? Her heart is
n heaviness and her home is desolated ; but she has been to her
icavenly Father, and unbosomed her griefs before Him. There
3 peace on her saddened countenance, peace in her gentle
fords ; the peace of God has come down, and is filling her trust-
ig soul. How sweet and soft is her sorrow, and how it softens
nd awes without agitating others !

It is related that on a small, and rocky, and almost inaccessible
sland, is the residence of a poor widow. The passage of the
dace is exceedingly dangerous to vessels, and her cottage is
ailed the " Lighthouse," from the fact that she uniformly keeps
, lamp burning in her little window at night. Early and late she
nay be seen trimming her lamp with oil, lest some misguided
iark may perish through her neglect. For this she asks no re-
gard. But her kindness stops not here. When any vessel is
wrecked, she rests not till the chilled mariners come ashore to
hare her little board, and be warmed by her glowing fire. This
>oor woman in her younger, perhaps not happier days — though
tappy they must have been, for sorrow cannot lodge in such a
teart — witnessed her husband struggling with the waves and
wallowed up by the remorseless billows —

" In sight of home and friends who throng'd to save."

Phis directed her benevolence towards those who brave the
langers of the deep ; this prompted her present devoted and
olitary life, in which her only, her sufficient enjoyment, is in
loing good.* Sweet and blessed fruit of bereavement ! What
•eauty is here ! a loveliness I would little speak of, but more
evere ! a flower crushed indeed, yet sending forth its fragrance
D all around ! Truly, as the sun seems greatest in his lowest

* This anecdote has supplied Miss Martineau with the most interesting
laracter of her little tale, " The Billow and the Rock."— Ed.

220 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HERMAN HOOKER.

estate, so did sorrow enlarge her heart, and make her appear
the more noble the lower it brought her down. We cannot think
she was unhappy, though there was a remembered grief in her
heart. A grieved heart may be a richly stored one. Where
charity abounds, misery cannot

" Such are the tender woes of love,
Fost'ring the heart they bend."

A pious lady who had lost her husband was for a time incon-
solable. She could not think, scarcely could she speak, of any-
thing but him. Nothing seemed to take her attention but the
three promising children he had left her, singing to her his pre-
sence, his look, his love. But soon these were all taken ill, and
died within a few days of each other; and now the childless
mother was calmed even by the greatness of the stroke. The
hand of God was thus made visible to her. She could see
nothing but His work in the dispensation. Thus was the passion
of her grief allayed. Her disposition to speak of her loss, her
solemn repose, was the admiration of all beholders. The Lord
hath not slain her ; He had slain what to some mothers is more
than life — that in which the sweets of life were treasured up — that
which she would give life to redeem \ and yet could she say, " I
will trust in Him." As the lead that goes quickly down to the
ocean's depth, ruffles its surface less than lighter things, so the
blow which was strongest did not so much disturb her calm of
mind, but drove her to its proper trust.

We had a friend loved and lovely. He had genius and learn-
ing. He had all qualities, great and small, blending in a most
attractive whole — a character as much to be loved as admired,
as truly gentle as it was great, and so combining opposite excel-
lences, that each was beautified by the other. Between him and
her who survives him there was a reciprocity of taste and sym-
pathy— a living in each other, so that her thoughts seemed but
the pictures of his — her mind but a glass that showed the very
beauty that looked into it, or rather became itself that beauty-
dying in his dying she did not all die. Her love, the heart's

HERMAN HOOKER.] THE VICTORIES OF LO VE. 221

animation, lifted her up ; her sense of loss was merged for a
while in her love and confidence of his good estate. In strong
and trusting thoughts of him as a happy spirit, and of God as his
and her portion, she rested as in a cloud. A falling from this
elevation was truly a coming to one's self from God — a leaving
of heaven for earth. Let her tell the rest in words as beautiful
as they are true to nature : " My desolating loss I realise more
and more. For many weeks his peaceful and triumphant depar-
ture left such an elevating influence on my mind, that I could
only think of him as a pure and happy spirit. But now my feel-
ings have become more selfish, and I long for the period to arrive,
when I may lie down by his side, and be reunited in a nobler and
more enduring union than even that which was ours here."

Thus does the mind, when it ceases to look upward, fall from
its elevation. Thus is the low note of sadness heard running
through all the music of life, when ourselves are the instruments
we play upon. The sorrow that deepens not love, and runs not
off with it, must ever flood the spirit and bear it down. Our best
and sweetest life, that which we live in the good of others, is
richly stocked with charities. The life which we live in ourselves,
that which depends on our stores, is master only of chaff and
smoke, when they are taken away, and destitute of that last re-
lieving accommodation, a resigned spirit. The young man whom
Jesus told to sell all his goods, and give to the poor, and he
should have treasure in heaven, should be truly enriched — " was
sad at that saying." He understood not the riches of love, which
never feels itself so wealthy as when it has expended all in obedi-
ence to the commands it honours ; never so well furnished against
want and sorrow, as when best assured of the approbation of its
object. In that we are creatures, we see how poor we must be,
having nothing laid up in the Creator. Selfishness is poverty ; it
is the most utter destitution of a human being. It can bring no-
thing to his relief; it adds soreness to his sorrows ; it sharpens
his pains • it aggravates all the losses he is liable to endure, and
when goaded to extremes, often turns destroyer, and strikes its
last blows on himself. It gives us nothing to rest in or fly to in

222 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [HERMAN HOOKER.

trouble ; it turns our affections on ourselves, self on self, as the
sap of a tree descending out of season from its heavenward
branches, and making not only its life useless, but its growth
downward.

If there is anything about us which good hearts will reverence,
it is our grief on the loss of those we love. It is a condition in
which we seem to be smitten by a Divine hand, and thus made
sacred. It is a grief, too, which greatly enriches the heart, when
rightly borne. There may be no rebellion of the will, the sweetest
sentiments towards God and our fellow-beings may be deepened,
and still the desolation caused in the treasured sympathies and
hopes of the heart gives a new colour to the entire scene of life.
The dear affections which grew out of the consanguinities and
connexions of life, next to those we owe to God, are the most
sacred of our being j and if the hopes and revelations of a future
state did not come to our aid, our grief would be immoderate and
inconsolable, when these relations are broken by death.

But we are not left to sorrow in darkness. Death is as the
foreshadowing of life. We die, that we may die no more. So
short, too, is our life here, a mortal life at best, and so endless is
the life on which we enter at death, an immortal life, that the
consideration may well moderate our sorrow at parting. All who
live must be separated by the great appointment, and if the
change is their gain, we poorly commend our love to them, more
poorly our love to Christ, who came to redeem them and us, for
the end of taking us to his rest, if we refuse to be comforted.
Yes, it is selfish to dwell on our griefs, as though some strange
thing had happened to us, as though they were too important to
be relieved, or it were a virtue to sink under them. I would
revere all grief of this kind ; yet I would say there is such a thing
as a will of cherishing it, which makes it rather killing than im-
proving in its effect. This may be done under a conceit of duty
or gratitude to the dead. It may be done as a sacrifice to what
we deem is expected of us, or as a thing becoming in the eyes of
others. But that bereavement seems rather sanctified which sad-
dens not the heart over-much, and softens without withering it ;

JEFFREY.] PROGRESS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. • 223

which refuses no comfort or improvement we can profitably re-
ceive, and imposes no restraints on the rising hopes of the heart ;
which, in short, gives way and is lost in an overgrowth of kind
and grateful affections.

219. — |jr0gnss of

JEFFREY.

BY far the most considerable change which has taken place in
the world of letters, in our days, is that by which the wits of
Queen Anne's time have been gradually brought down from the
supremacy which they had enjoyed, without competition, for the
best part of a century. When we were at our studies, some
twenty-five years ago, we can perfectly remember that every
young man was set to read Pope, Swift, and Addison, as regularly
as Virgil, Cicero, and Horace. All who had any tincture of let-
ters were familiar with their writings and their history ; allusions
to them abounded in all popular discourses and all ambitious
conversation ; and they and their contemporaries were universally
acknowledged as our great models of excellence, and placed with-
out challenge at the head of our national literature. New books,
even when allowed to have merit, were never thought of as fit to
be placed in the same class, but were generally read and for-
gotten, and passed away like the transitory meteors of a lower
sky; while they remained in their brightness, and were supposed
to shine with a fixed and unalterable glory.

All this, however, we take it, is now pretty well altered ; and
in so far as persons of our antiquity can judge of the training and
habits of the rising generation, those celebrated writers no longer
form the manual of our studious youth, or enter necessarily into
the institution of a liberal education. Their names, indeed, are
still familiar to our ears ; but their writings no longer solicit our
habitual notice, and their subjects begin already to fade from our
recollection. Their high privileges and proud distinctions, at any

224 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JEFFREY.

rate, have evidently passed into other hands. It is no longer to
them that the ambitious look up with envy, or the humble with
admiration ; nor is it in their pages that the pretenders to wit and
eloquence now search for allusions that are sure to captivate, and
illustrations that cannot be mistaken. In this decay of their repu-
tation they have few advocates, and no imitators : and, from a
comparison of many observations, it seems to be clearly ascer-
tained, that they are declined considerably from " the high meri-
dian of their glory/' and may fairly be apprehended to be " has-
tening to their setting." Neither is it time alone that has wrought
this obscuration ; for the fame of Shakspere still shines in unde-
caying brightness ; and that of Bacon has been steadily advancing
and gathering new honours during the whole period which has
witnessed the rise and decline of his less vigorous successors.

There are but two possible solutions for phenomena of this
sort. Our taste has either degenerated — or its old models have
been fairly surpassed : and we have ceased to admire the writers
of the last century only because they are too good for us — or
because they are not good enough. Now, we confess, we are not
believers in the absolute and permanent corruption of national
taste ; on the contrary, we think that it is, of all faculties, that
which is most sure to advance and improve with time and expe-
rience ; and that, with the exception of those great physical or
political disasters which have given a check to civilisation itself,
there has always been a sensible progress in this particular ; and
that the general taste of every successive generation is better than
that of its predecessors. There are little capricious fluctuations,
no doubt, and fits of foolish admiration or fastidiousness, which
cannot be so easily accounted for : but the great movements are
all progressive : and though the progress consists at one time in
withholding toleration from gross faults, and at another in giving
their high prerogative to great beauties, this alteration has no
tendency to obstruct the general advance ; but, on the contrary,
is the best and the safest course in which it can be conducted.

We are of opinion, then, that the writers who adorned the
beginning of the last century have been eclipsed by those of our

JEFFREY.] PROGRESS OF ENGLISH LITER A TURE.

225

own time ; and that they have no chance of ever regaining the
supremacy in which they have thus been supplanted. There is
not, however, in our judgment, anything very stupendous in this
triumph of our contemporaries ; and the greater wonder with us
is, that it was so long delayed, and left for them to achieve. For
the truth is, that the writers of the former age had not a great
deal more than their judgment and industry to stand on, and
were always much more remarkable for the fewness of their faults
than the greatness of their beauties. Their laurels were won
much more by good conduct and discipline, than by enterprising
boldness or native force ; — nor can it be regarded as any very
great merit in those who had so little of that inspiration of genius,
to have steered clear of the dangers to which that inspiration is
liable. Speaking generally of that generation of authors, it may
be said that, as poets, they had no force or greatness of fancy —
no pathos, and no enthusiasm ; — and, as philosophers, no com-
prehensiveness, depth, or originality. They are sagacious, no
doubt, neat, clear, and reasonable, but for the most part cold,
timid, and superficial. They never meddle with the great scenes
of nature, or the great passions of man ; but content themselves
with just and sarcastic representations of city life, and of the
paltry passions and meaner vices that are bred in that lower
element. Their chief care is to avoid being ridiculous in the
eyes of the witty, and above all to eschew the ridicule of exces-
sive sensibility or enthusiasm — to be at once witty and rational
themselves, with as good a grace as possible; but to give their
countenance to no wisdom, no fancy, and no morality, which
passes the standards current in good company. Their inspira-
tion, accordingly, is nothing more Jhan a sprightly sort of good
sense ; and they have scarcely any invention but what is subser-
vient to the purposes of derision and satire. Little gleams of
pleasantry and sparkles of wit glitter through their compositions;
but no glow of feeling — no blaze of imagination— no flashes of
genius ever irradiate their substance. They never pass beyond
" the visible diurnal sphere," or deal in anything that can either
lift us above our vulgar nature, or ennoble its reality. With these
VOL. in. P

226 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JEFFREY.

accomplishments, they may pass well enough for sensible and
polite writers, — but scarcely for men of genius ; and it is certainly
far more surprising that persons of this description should have
maintained themselves for near a century, at the head of the
literature of a country that had previously produced a Shakspere,
a Spenser, a Bacon, and a Taylor, than that, towards the end of
that long period, doubts should have arisen as to the legitimacy
of a title by which they laid claim to that high station. Both
parts of the phenomenon, however, we daresay, had causes which
better expounders might explain to the satisfaction of all the
world. We see them but imperfectly, and have room only for an
imperfect sketch of what we see.

Our first literature consisted of saintly legends and romances of
chivalry, though Chaucer gave it a more national and popular
character, by his original descriptions of external nature, and the
familiarity and gaiety of his social humour. In the time of
Elizabeth, it received a copious infusion of classical images and
ideas; but it was still intrinsically romantic, serious, and even
somewhat lofty and enthusiastic. Authors were then so few in
number, that they were looked upon with a sort of veneration,
and considered as a kind of inspired persons ; at least they were
not yet so numerous as to be obliged to abuse each other, in
order to obtain a share of distinction for themselves ; and they
neither affected a tone of derision in their writings, nor wrote in
fear of derision from others. They were filled with their subjects,
and dealt with them fearlessly in their own way ; and the stamp
of originality, force, and freedom, is consequently upon almost
all their productions. In the reign of James I., our literature,
with some few exceptions, touching rather the form than the sub-
stance of its merits, appears to us to have reached the greatest
perfection to which it has yet attained; though it would probably
have advanced still farther in the succeeding reign, had not the
great national dissensions which then arose, turned the talent
and energy of the people into other channels — first, to the asser-
tion of their civil rights, and afterwards, to the discussion of their
religious interests. The graces of literature suffered of course in

JEFFREY.] PROGRESS OF ENGLISH LITER A TURE.

227

those fierce contentions, and a deeper shade of austerity was
thrown upon the intellectual character of the nation. Her
genius, however, though less captivating and adorned than in the
happier days which preceded, was still active, fruitful, and com-
manding ; and the period of the civil wars, besides the mighty
minds that guided the public counsels, and were absorbed in
public cares, produced the giant powers of Taylor, and Hobbes,
and Barrow — the muse of Milton, the learning of Coke, and the
ingenuity of Cowley.

The Restoration introduced a French court, under circum-
stances more favourable for the effectual exercise of court in-
fluence than ever before existed in England ; but this of itself
would not have been sufficient to account for the sudden change
in our literature which ensued. It was seconded by causes of
far more general operation. The Restoration was undoubtedly
a popular act ; and, indefensible as the conduct of the army and
the civil leaders was on that occasion, there can be no question
that the severities of Cromwell, and the extravagances of the
sectaries, had made republican professions hateful, and religious
ardour ridiculous, in the eyes of a great proportion of the people.
All the eminent writers of the preceding period, however, had
inclined to the party that was now overthrown, and their writings
had not merely been accommodated to the character of the
government under which they were produced, but were deeply
imbued with its obnoxious principles, which were those of their
respective authors. When the restraints of authority were taken
off, therefore, and it became profitable, as well as popular, to dis-
credit the fallen party, it was natural that the leading authors should
affect a style of levity and derision, as most opposite to that of
their opponents, and best calculated for the purposes they had in
view. The nation, too, was now for the first time essentially
divided in point of character and principle, and a much greater
proportion were capable both of writing in support of their own
notions, and of being influenced by what was written. Add to
all this, that there were real and serious defects in the style and
manner of the former generation; and that the grace, and brevity,

228 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JEFFREY.

and vivacity of that gayer manner which was now introduce.d
from France, were not only good and captivating in themselves,
but had then all the charms of novelty and of contrast ; and it
will not be difficult to understand how it came to supplant that
which had been established of old in •the country, and that so
suddenly, that the same generation, among whom Milton had
been formed to the severe sanctity of wisdom, and the noble
independence of genius, lavished its loudest applauses on the
obscenity and servility of such writers as Rochester and Wycherly.

This change, however, like all sudden changes, was too fierce
and violent to be long maintained at the same pitch ; and when
the wits and profligates of King Charles had sufficiently insulted
the seriousness and virtue of their predecessors, there would prob-
ably have been a revulsion towards the accustomed taste of the
nation, had not the party of the innovators been reinforced by
champions of more temperance and judgment. The result seemed
at one time suspended on the will of Dryden, in whose individual
person the genius of the English and of the French school of
literature may be said to have maintained a protracted struggle.
But the evil principle prevailed ! Carried by the original bent of
his genius, and his familiarity with our older models, to the culti-
vation of our native style, to which he might have imparted more
steadiness and correctness — for in force and in sweetness it was
already matchless — he was unluckily seduced by the attractions
of fashion, and the dazzling of the clear wit and gay rhetoric in
which it delighted, to lend his powerful aid to the new corruptions
and refinements ; and, in fact, to prostitute his great gifts to the
purposes of party rage or licentious ribaldry.

The sobriety of the succeeding reigns allayed this fever of pro-
fanity, but no genius arose sufficiently powerful to break the spell
that still withheld us from the use of our own peculiar gifts and
faculties. On the contrary, it was the unfortunate ambition of the
next generation of authors, to improve and perfect the new style,
rather than to return to the old one; and it cannot be denied
that they did improve it. They corrected its gross indecency-
increased its precision and correctness — made its pleasantry and

JEFFREY.] PROGRESS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 2 29

sarcasm more polished and elegant — and spread through the
whole of its irony, its narration, and its reflection, a tone of clear
and condensed good sense, which recommended itself to all who
had and all who had not any relish for higher beauties.

This is the praise of Queen Anne's wits, and to this praise they
are justly entitled. This was left for them to do, and they did it
well. They were invited to it by the circumstances of their
situation, and do not seem to have been possessed of any such
bold or vigorous spirit as either to neglect or to outgo the invita-
tion. Coming into life immediately after the consummation of a
bloodless revolution, effected much more by the cool sense than
the angry passion of the nation, they seem to have felt that they
were born in an age of reason rather than of feeling or fancy ;
and that men's minds, though considerably divided and unsettled
upon many points, were in a much better temper to relish judi-
cious argument and cutting satire than the glow of enthusiastic
passion, or the richness of a luxuriant imagination. To those
accordingly they made no pretensions ; but, writing with infinite
good sense, and great grace and vivacity, and, above all, writing
for the first time in a tone that was peculiar to the upper ranks
of society, and upon subjects that were almost exclusively inter-
esting to them, they naturally figured, at least while the manner
was new, as the most accomplished, fashionable, and perfect
writers which the world had ever seen ; and made the wild, luxu-
riant, and humble sweetness of our earlier authors appear rude
and untutored in the comparison. Men grew ashamed of admir-
ing, and afraid of imitating writers of so little skill and smartness;
and the opinion became general, not only that their faults were
intolerable, but that even their beauties were puerile and barbar-
ous, and unworthy the serious regard of a polite and distinguish-
ing age.

These, and similar considerations, will go far to account for
the celebrity which those authors acquired in their day ; but it
is not quite so easy to explain how they should have so long
retained their ascendant. One cause, undoubtedly, was the real
excellence of their productions, in the style which they had

230 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JEFFREY.

adopted. It was hopeless to think of surpassing them in that
style ; and, recommended as it was by the felicity of their execu-
tion, it required some courage to depart from it, and to recur to
another, which seemed to have been so lately abandoned for its
sake. The age which succeeded, too, was not the age of courage
or adventure. There never was, on the whole, a quieter time than
the reigns of the two first Georges, and the greater part of that
which ensued. There were two little provincial rebellions indeed,
and a fair proportion of foreign war ; but there was nothing to
stir the minds of the people at large, to rouse their passions, or
excite their imaginations — nothing like the agitations of the Re-
formation in the sixteenth century, or of the civil wars in the
seventeenth. They went on, accordingly, minding their old busi-
ness, and reading their old books, with great patience and stupidity.
And certainly there never was so remarkable a dearth of original
talent — so long an interregnum of native genius — as during about
sixty years in the middle of the last century. The dramatic
art was dead fifty years before ; and poetry seemed verging
to a similar extinction. The few sparks that appeared too,
showed that the old fire was burnt out, and that the altar must
hereafter be heaped with fuel of another quality. Gray, with the
talents rather of a critic than a poet, with learning, fastidiousness,
and scrupulous delicacy of taste, instead of fire, tenderness, or
invention, began and ended a small school, which we could
scarcely have wished to become permanent, admirable in many
respects as some of its productions are, being far too elaborate
and artificial either for grace or for fluency, and fitter to excite
the admiration of scholars than the delight of ordinary men.
However, he had the merit of not being in any degree French,
and of restoring to our poetry the dignity of seriousness, and the
tone at least of force and energy. The Wartons, both as critics
and as poets, were of considerable service in discrediting the high
pretensions of the former race, and in bringing back to public
notice the great stores and treasures of poetry, which lay hid in
the records of our older literature. Akenside attempted a sort of
classical and philosophical rapture, which no eloquence of Ian-

JEFFREY.] PROGRESS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 231

guage could easily have rendered popular, but which had merits
of no vulgar order for those who could study it. Goldsmith wrote
with perfect elegance and beauty, in a style of mellow tenderness
and elaborate simplicity. He had the harmony of Pope without
his quaintness, and his selectness of diction without his coldness
and eternal vivacity. And last of all came Cowper, with a style
of complete originality ; and, for the first time, made it apparent
to readers of all descriptions, that Pope and Addison were no
longer to be the models of English poetry.

In philosophy and prose writing in general the case was nearly
parallel. The name of Hume is by far the most considerable
which occurs in the period to which we have alluded. But,
though his thinking was English, his style is entirely French : and,
being naturally of a cold fancy, there is nothing of that eloquence
or richness about him which characterises the writings of Taylor,
and Hooker, and Bacon ; and continues, with less weight of mat-
ter, to please in those of Cowley and Clarendon. Warburton had
great powers, and wrote with more force and freedom than the
wits to whom he succeeded ; but his faculties were perverted by a
paltry love of paradox, and rendered useless to mankind by an
unlucky choice of subjects, and the arrogance and dogmatism of
his temper. Adam Smith was nearly the first who made deeper
reasonings and more exact knowledge popular among us; and
Junius and Johnson the first who again familiarised us with more
glowing and sonorous diction; and made us feel the tameness
and poorness of the serious style of Addison and Swift.

This brings us down almost to the present times, in which the
revolution in our literature has been accelerated and confirmed
by the concurrence of many causes. The agitations of the French
Revolution, and the discussions as well as the hopes and terrors
to which it gave occasion — the genius of Edmund Burke, and
some others of his land of genius — the impression of the new
literature of Germany, evidently the original of our lake-school of
poetry, and of many innovations in our drama — the rise or revival
of a more evangelical spirit in the body of the people — and the
vast extension of our political and commercial relations, which

232

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

[VARIOUS.

have not only familiarised all ranks of people with distant coun-
tries and great undertakings, but have brought knowledge and
enterprise home, not merely to the imagination, but to the actual
experience of almost every individual. All these, and several
other circumstances, have so far improved or excited the character
of our nation, as to have created an effectual demand for more
profound speculation, and more serious emotion than was dealt
in by the writers of the former century, and which, if it has not
yet produced a corresponding supply in all branches, has at least
had the effect of decrying the commodities that were previously
in vogue, as unsuited to the altered condition of the times.

220.— dkofos anir

VARIOUS.

THE season when Autumn is sliding into Winter— the season of alternate
sunshine and mist, of blue sky and cloud — has called forth some of the most
beautiful imagery of our highest poets. What a charming ode is that of
SHELLEY'S " To the Wild West Wind !"—

O wild West Wind, thou breath of
Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence
the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an en-
chanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and

hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O

thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry

bed

The winged seeds, where they lie

cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,

until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall

blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth,
and fill

(Driving sweet birds like flocks to
feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain
and hill.

Wild Spirit, which art moving every-
where ;

Destroyer and preserver, hear, oh,
hear!

II.

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the

steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying

leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of

heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there
are spread

VARIOUS.] CLOUDS AND WINDS. 233

On the blue surface of thine airy The sea-blooms and the oozy woods,

surge, which wear

Like the bright hair uplifted from the The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

head

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray

Of some fierce Mcenad, even from with fear,

the dim verge And tremble and despoil themselves :

Of the horizon to the zenith's height, Oh, hear!
The locks of the approaching storm.

Thou dirge IV.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest

Of the dying year, to which this clos- bear ;

ing night If I were a swift cloud to fly with

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, thee ;

Vaulted with all thy congregated A wave to pant beneath thy power,

might and share

Of vapours, from whose solid atmo- The impulse of thy strength, only less

sphere free

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If

burst: Oh, hear! even

I were as in my boyhood, and could
ni. be
Thou who didst waken from his sum-
mer dreams The comrade of thy wanderings over
The blue Mediterranean, where he heaven,

lay, As then, when to outstrip the skyey

Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline speed

streams, Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er

have striven

Beside a pumice isle in Baise's bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and As thus with thee in prayer in my

towers sore need.

Quivering within the wave's intenser Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a

day, cloud !

I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed !
All overgrown with azure moss and

flowers, A heavy weight of hours has chained

So sweet, the sense faints picturing and bowed,

them! Thou One too, like thee, tameless, and

For whose path the Atlantic's level swift, and proud.

powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while Make me thy lyre, even as the forest

far below is:

234 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

What if my leaves are falling like its Like withered leaves to quicken a new

own ! birth ;

The tumults of thy mighty harmonies And, by the incantation of this verse,

Will take from both a deep autumnal Scatter, as from an unextinguished

tone. hearth,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Ashes and sparks, my words among

spirit fierce, mankind !

My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous Be through my lips to unawakened earth
one!

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O wind ;

Drive my dead thoughts over the If Winter comes, can Spring be far
universe behind?

The evening of piled-up clouds is a striking characteristic of
the season. Who has described the fantastic forms of such a sky
with the fidelity of SHAKSPERE ?

Ant. Sometimes we see a cloud that's dragonish:
A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
A towered citadel, a pendant rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon 't, that nod unto the world,
And mock our eyes with air : thou hast seen these signs ;
They are black Vesper's pageants.

Eros. Ay, my lord.

Ant. That which is now a horse, even with a thought,
The rack dislimns ; and makes it indistinct,
As water is in water.

COLERIDGE looks up " Cloudland " with a happier spirit than
that of the fallen Antony.

Oh ! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,

Or let the easily-persuaded eyes
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould

Of a friend's fancy ; or, with head bent low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go
From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land !

Or listening to the tide, with closed sight,

VARIOUS.] CLOUDS AND WINDS. 235

Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand,

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

This, too, is the season of sea-storms. Our readers will be glad
to make acquaintance with one of the most remarkable of our
old quaint poets, who describes with a force which can only be
the result of actual experience.

The south and west winds joined, and as they blew,

Waves like a rolling trench before them threw.

Sooner than you read this line did the gale,

Like shot, not feared till felt, our sails assail ;

And what at first was called a gust, the same

Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name.

Jonas ! I pity thee : and curse those men,

Who, when the storm raged most, did wake thee then.

Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil

All offices of death, except to kill.

But when I waked, I saw that I saw not ;

I and the sun, which should teach me, had forgot

East, west, day, night ; and I could only say,

If the world had lasted now it had been day.

Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all

Could none by his right name but thunder call

Lightning was all our light, and it rained more

Than if the sun had drunk the sea before.

Some coffin'd in their cabins lie, equally

Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must die ;

And as sin-burden' d souls from grave will creep

At the last day, some forth their cabins peep,

And tremblingly ask, What news? and do hear so

As jealous husbands, what they would not know.

Some, sitting on the hatches, would seem there,

With hideous gazing, to fear away Fear ;

There note they the ship's sicknesses, the mast

Shaked with an ague, and the hold and waist

With a salt dropsy clogged, and our tacklings

Snapping like too high-stretched treble strings,

And from our tattered sails rags drop down so

As from one hanged in chains a year ago ;

Even our ordnance, placed for our defence,

Strive to break lose, and 'scape away from thence.

236 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. fA. CUNNINGHAM:

Pumping hath tired our men, and what 's the gain ?

Seas into seas thrown we suck in again,

Hearing hath deafed our sailors : and if they

Knew how to hear, there 's none knows what to say.

Compared to these storms, death is but a qualm,

Hell somewhat lightsome, the Berrfhid' a calm.

Darkness, Light's eldest brother, his birthright

Claimed o'er this world, and to heaven hath chased light

All things are one, and that one none can be

Since all forms uniform deformity

Both cover ; so that we, except God say

Another Fiat, shall have no more day:

So violent, yet long these furies be,

That though thine absence starve me, I wish not thee. DONNE.

221.—

A. CUNNINGHAM.

[THE following analysis of the famous ballad of "Chevy Chase" is by the
late Allan Cunningham, and originally appeared in "The Penny Magazine."
We shall select from the same source some account of a few other relics of our
ancient Minstrelsy.]

To Bishop Percy in the south, and Sir Walter Scott in the north,
we owe the recovery, as well as restoration, of some of our finest
historical ballads, strains alike welcome to the rude and the
polished, and not dear alone, as Warton avers, to savage virtue,
and tolerated only before civil policy had humanised our an-
cestors. They won the admiration of the chivalrous Sidney, and
the praise of the classic Addison : they moved the gentlest hearts
and the strongest minds, and, though rough, and often unmelo-
dious, shared the public love with the polished compositions of
our noblest poets ; and their influence is still felt throughout our
land, but more especially among the hills and glens and old
towers of the northern border.

The battle of Chevy Chase had its origin in the rivalry of the
Percies and Douglases for honour and arms : their castles and
lands lay on the Border ; their pennons oft met on the marshes ;

A. CUNNINGHAM.]

CHEVY CHASE.

237

their war-cries were raised either in hostility or defiance when the
Border-riders assembled ; and though the chiefs of those haughty
names had encountered on fields of battle, this seemed to
stimulate rather than satisfy their desire of glory : in the spirit of
those chivalrous times Percy made a vow that he would enter
Scotland, take his pleasure in the Border woods for three summer-

days, and slay at his will the deer on the domains of his rival.
".Tell him," said Douglas, when the vaunt was reported, " tell
him he will find one day more than enough." Into Scotland,
with 1500 chosen archers and greyhounds for the chase, Percy
marched accordingly, at the time " when yeomen win their hay ;"
the dogs ran, the arrows flew, and great was the slaughter among
the bucks of the Border. As Percy stood and gazed on " a
hundred fallow deer," and " harts of grice," and tasted wine and
venison hastily cooked under the greenwood tree, he said to his
men, " Douglas vowed he would meet me here ; but since he is
not come, and we have fulfilled our promise, let us be gone."
With that one of his squires exclaimed : —

Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, Full twenty hundred Scottish spears
His men in armour bright, All marching in our sight ;

238 HALF.HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [A.CUNNINGHAM.

All men of pleasant Teviotdale, O cease your sport, Earl Percy said,

Fast by the river Tweed : And take your bows with speed.

It was indeed high time to quit the chase of the deer, and feel
that their bow-strings were unchafed and serviceable, for stern
work was at hand. The coming of the Scots is announced with
a proper minstrel flourish :

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Show me, said he, whose men you be,

Most like a baron bold, That hunt so boldly here ;

Rode foremost of his company, That without my consent do chase

Whose armour shone like gold. And kill my fallow deer.

To this haughty demand the first man that made answer was
Percy himself: he replied, "We choose not to say whose men we
are ; but we will risk our best blood to slay these fallow deer."
" By St Bride, then, one of us shall die ! " exclaimed Douglas, in
anger. " I know thee ; thou art an earl as well as myself, and a
Percy too ; so set thy men aside, for they have done me no
offence ; draw thy sword, and let us settle this feud ourselves."
And he sprang to the ground as he spoke. " Be he accursed/'
replied Percy, " who says nay to this ; " and he drew his sword
also : —

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, You are two earls, said Witherington,

Witherington was his name ; And I a squire alone.

Who said, I would not have it told

To Henry our King for shame, l 'n do the best that do X ma7>

While I have power to stand :

That e'er my captain fought on foot, While I have power to wield my sword

And I stood looking on ; I '11 fight with heart and hand.

This resolution met with the instant support of the English
bowmen. The Scottish writers allege that it was acceptable to
the chiefs on the southern side, who could not but feel that their
Percy was no match for the terrible Douglas. Be that as it may,
the interposition of Witherington was seconded by a flight of
arrows : —

Our English archers bent their bows, At the first flight of arrows sent
Their hearts were good and true : Full fourscore Scots they slew.

This sudden discharge and severe execution did not dismay

A. CUNNINGHAM.] CHEVY CHASE, 239

Douglas : his " men of pleasant Teviotdale " levelled their spears
and rushed on the English archers, who, throwing aside their
bows, engaged in close contest with sword and axe : —

The battle closed on every side, Oh, but it was a grief to see,
No slackness there was found, And likewise for to hear,

And many a gallant gentleman The cries of men lying in their gore,
Lay gasping on the ground. And scattered here and there.

In the midst of the strife the two leaders met, and that single
combat ensued which Witherington had laboured to prevent :
they were both clad in complete mail, and the encounter was
fierce : —

They fought until they both did sweat, Until the blood like drops of rain,
With swords of tempered steel ; They trickling down did feel.

" Yield thee, Percy," exclaimed Douglas, who seems to have
thought that he had the best of it : " Yield thee. I shall freely
pay thy ransom, and thy advancement shall be high with our
Scottish King." This was resented by the high-souled English-
man : —

No, Douglas, quoth Earl Percy then, I would not yield to any Scot

Thy proffer I do scorn ; That ever yet was born.

During this brief parley the contest among their followers raged
far and wide ; nor had the peril of Percy been unobserved by one
who had the power to avert it : as he uttered the heroic senti-
ments recorded in the last verse, an end — a not uncommon one
in those days — was put to the combat between the two earls : —

With that there came an arrow keen Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart
Out of an English bow, A deep and deadly blow.

"Fight on, my merry men," exclaimed the expiring hero.
Percy was deeply moved : he took the dead man by the hand,
and said, " Earl Douglas, I would give all my lands to save thee :
a more redoubted knight never perished by such a chance."
The fall of Douglas was seen from a distant part of the strife by
a gallant knight of Scotland, who vowed instant vengeance : —

240 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [A.CUNNINGHAM.

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, And through Earl Percy's fair bodie,

Who with a spear most bright, He thrust his hateful spear.

And mounted on a gallant steed,

Rode fiercely through the fight. With such a vehement force and might

He did his body gore,

He passed the English archers all, The spear ran through the other side

Without or dread or fear, A long cloth-yard and more.

The career of the Scot and the fall of the Englishman were
observed and avenged. The Scottish spear, the national weapon
of the north, was employed against Percy, the cloth-yard shaft,
the national weapon of the south, was directed against Mont-
gomery : —

Thus did those two bold, nobles die, An arrow of a cloth -yard length

Whose courage none could stain. Unto the head drew he.

An English archer soon perceived

His noble lord was slain. Against Sir Hugh Montgomery there

So right his shaft he set

He had a bow bent in his hand, The gray goose wing that was thereon

Made of a trusty tree ; In his heart's blood was wet.

With the fall of their chiefs and leaders the contest did not
conclude : the battle began at break of day : Douglas and Percy
are supposed to have fallen in the afternoon, but squires and
grooms carried on the contention till the sun was set ; and even
when the evening bell rung, it was scarcely over. " Of twenty
hundred Scottish spears," says the English version of the ballad,
" scarce fifty-five did flee." " Of fifteen hundred English spears,"
says the northern edition, " went home but fifty-three." So both
nations claim the victory; but in an older copy the minstrel
leaves it undecided ; though Froissart, in the account which he
drew from knights of both lands, says the Scotch were the con-
querors. On both sides the flower of the Border chivalry was
engaged. The warlike names of Lovel, Widrington, Liddle, Rat-
cliffe, and Egerton, were the sufferers on the side of the Percies ;
while with Douglas fell Montgomery, Scott, Swinton, johnstone,
Maxwell, and Stewart of Dalswinton. The pennon and spear of
Percy were carried with Montgomery's body to the castle of
Eglinton ; and it is said that, when a late Duke of Northumber-
land requested their restoration, the Earl of Eglinton replied,

WASHINGTON IRVING.] COL UMBUS A T BARCELONA.

24I

" There is as good lea-land here as on Chevy Chase— let Percy
come and take them."

One touch of natural affection is worth something after these
records of causeless slaughter : —

Next day did many widows come, Their bodies bathed in purple gore,

Their husbands to bewail ; They bore with them away :

They washed their wounds in brinish And kissed them dead a thousand

tears, times,

But all would not prevail. Ere they were clad in clay.

222. — (Jtokmbtts at gnrolons,

WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE letter of Columbus to the Spanish monarchs, announcing
his discovery, had produced the greatest sensation at court. The
event it communicated was considered the most extraordinary
of their prosperous reign j and, following so close upon the con-
quest of Granada, was pronounced a signal mark of divine favour
for that triumph achieved in the cause of the true faith. The
sovereigns themselves were for a time dazzled and bewildered by
this sudden and easy acquisition of a new empire, of indefinite
extent and apparently boundless wealth ; and their first idea was
to secure it beyond the reach of question or competition.
Shortly after his arrival in Seville, Columbus received a letter
from them, expressing their great delight, and requesting him to
repair immediately to court, to concert plans for a second and
more extensive expedition. As the summer was already advanc-
ing, the time favourable for a voyage, they desired him to make
any arrangements at Seville, or elsewhere, that might hasten the
expedition, and to inform them by the return of the courier what
was necessary to be done on their part. This letter was ad-
dressed to him by the title of " Don Christopher Columbus, our
Admiral of the Ocean Sea, and Viceroy and Governor of the
Islands discovered in the Indies ; " at the same time he was pro-
VOL. in. Q

242 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WASHINGTON IRVING.

mised still further rewards. Columbus lost no time in complying
with the commands of the sovereigns. He sent a memorandum
of the ships, men, and munitions that would be requisite, and
having made such dispositions at Seville as circumstances per-
mitted, set out on his journey for Barcelona, taking with him the
six Indians and the various curiosities and productions he had
brought from the New World.

The fame of his discovery had resounded throughout the
nation, and as his route lay through several of the finest and
most populous provinces of Spain, his journey appeared like the
progress of a sovereign. Wherever he passed, the surrounding
country poured forth its inhabitants, who lined the road and
thronged the villages. In the large towns, the streets, windows,
and balconies were filled with eager spectators, who rent the air
with acclamations. His journey was continually impeded by the
multitude pressing to gain a sight of him and of the Indians, who
were regarded with as much admiration as if they had been
natives of another planet. It was impossible to satisfy the
craving curiosity which assailed himself and his attendants, at
every stage, with innumerable questions ; popular rumour as
usual had exaggerated the truth, and had filled the newly-found
country with all kinds of wonders.

It was about the middle of April that Columbus arrived at
Barcelona, where every preparation had been made to give him
a solemn and magnificent reception. The beauty and serenity
of the weather, in that genial season and favoured climate, contri-
buted to give splendour to this memorable ceremony. As he
drew near the place, many of the more youthful courtiers and
hidalgos of gallant bearing came forth to meet and welcome him.
His entrance into this noble city has been compared to one of
those triumphs which the Romans were accustomed to decree
to conquerors. First, were paraded the Indians, painted accord-
ing to their savage fashion, and decorated with tropical feathers
and with their national ornaments of gold ; after these were borne
various kinds of live parrots, together with stuffed birds and
animals of unknown species, and rare plants supposed to be of

WASHINGTON IRVING.] COLUMBUS AT BARCELONA. 243

precious qualities : while great care was taken to make a con-
spicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other decora-
tions of gold, which might give an idea of the wealth of the
newly-discovered regions. After these followed Columbus, on
horseback, surrounded by a brilliant cavalcade of Spanish
chivalry. The streets were almost impassable, from the count-
less multitude ; the windows and balconies were crowded with
the fair ; the very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed
as if the public eye could not be sated with gazing on these
trophies of an unknown world, or on the remarkable man by
whom it had been discovered. There was a sublimity in this
event that mingled a solemn feeling with the public joy. It was
looked upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Providence in
reward for the piety of the monarchs; and the majestic and
venerable appearance -of the discoverer, so different from the
youth and buoyancy that are generally expected from roving
enterprise, seemed in harmony with the grandeur and dignity ot
his achievement.

To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, the sove-
reigns had ordered their throne to be placed in public, under a
rich canopy of brocade of gold, in a vast and splendid saloon.
Here the king and queen awaited his arrival, seated in state, with
the prince Juan beside them ; and attended by the dignitaries of
their court and the principal nobility of Castile, Valencia, Cata-
lonia, and Arragon ; all impatient to behold the man who had
conferred so incalculable a benefit upon the nation. At length
Columbus entered the hall surrounded by a brilliant crowd of
cavaliers, among whom, says Las Casas, he was conspicuous for
his stately and commanding person, which, with his countenance
rendered venerable by his gray hairs, gave him the august appear-
ance of a senator of Rome. A modest smile lighted up his
features, showing that he enjoyed the state and glory in which
he came ; and certainly nothing could be more deeply moving
to a mind inflamed by noble ambition, and conscious of having
greatly deserved, than these testimonials of the admiration and
gratitude of a nation, or rather of a world. As Columbus ap-

244 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WASHINGTON IRVING.

preached, the sovereigns rose, as if receiving a person of the
highest rank. Bending his knees, he requested to kiss their
hands ; but there was some hesitation on the part of their
majesties to permit this act of vassalage. Raising him in the
most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat himself in their
presence ; a rare honour in this proud and punctilious court.

At the request of their majesties, Columbus now gave an ac-
count of the most striking events of his voyage, and a description
of the islands which he had discovered. He displayed the speci-
mens he had brought of unknown birds and other animals, of rare
plants of medicinal and aromatic virtue ; of native gold in dust,
in crude masses, or laboured into barbaric ornaments ; and,
above all, the natives of these countries, who were objects of
intense and inexhaustible interest , since there is nothing to man
so curious as the varieties of his own species. All these he pro-
nounced mere harbingers of great discoveries he had yet to make,
which would add realms of incalculable wealth to the dominions
of their majesties, and whole nations of proselytes to the true
faith.

The words of Columbus were listened to with profound emotion
by the sovereigns. When he had finished, they sunk on their
knees, and, raising their clasped hands to heaven, their eyes filled
with tears of joy and gratitude, they poured forth thanks and
praises to God for so great a providence ; all present followed their
example ; a deep and solemn enthusiasm pervaded that splendid
assembly, and prevented all common acclamations of triumph.
The anthem of Te Deum Laudamus, chanted by the choir of the
royal chapel, with the melodious accompaniments of the instru-
ments, rose up from the midst in a full body of sacred harmony,
bearing up as it were the feelings and thoughts of the auditors to
heaven ; " so that," says the venerable Las Casas, " it seemed as
if in that hour they communicated with celestial delights." Such
was the solemn and pious manner in which the brilliant court of
Spain celebrated this sublime event, offering up a grateful tribute
of melody and praise, and giving glory to God for the discovery
of another world.

COOPER.] THE ARIEL AMONG THE SHOALS. 245

223.— i

COOPER.

[THE extract from the American novelist now given is independent of the
story, which turns upon the adventures of the famous captain, Paul Jones,
whose gallant deeds in the war of the American Colonies with England have
a touch of romance in them which well fits them for fictitious narrative.
James Fenimore Cooper, the son of an American judge, was born in 1789.
Having quitted college, he entered the navy in 1805, and remained six years
afloat. In 1811 he married, and commenced his career as an author. What
Scott did for the Highlands in their transition from clanship to civilisation,
Cooper did for the United States in their progress to nationality and exten-
sion. As a writer he is unequal, and too generally diffuse. But there are
passages in " The Spy," " The Pilot," and other of his best works, which are
truly excellent.]

The extraordinary activity of Griffith, which communicated
itself with promptitude to the whole crew, was produced by a sud-
den alteration in the weather. In place of the well-defined streak
along the horizon that has been already described, an immense
body of misty light appeared to be moving in with rapidity from
the ocean, while a distinct but distant roaring announced the sure
approach of the tempest that had so long troubled the waters.
Even Griffith, while thundering his orders through the trumpet,
and urging the men by his cries to expedition, would pause for
instants to cast anxious glances in the direction of the coming
storm, and the faces of the sailors who lay on the yards were
turned instinctively toward the same quarter of the heavens,
while they knotted the reef-points, or passed the gaskets, that
were to confine the unruly canvas to the prescribed limits.

The pilot alone, in that confused and busy throng, where voice
arose above voice and cry echoed cry in quick succession, ap-
peared as if he held no interest in the important stake. With his
eyes steadily fixed on the approaching mist, and his arms folded
together in composure, he stood calmly awaiting the result.

The ship had fallen off with her broadside to the sea, and was
become unmanageable, and the sails were already brought into the

246 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COOPER.

folds necessary to her security, when the quick and heavy flutter-
ing of canvas was thrown across the water with all the gloomy and
chilling sensations that such sounds produce, where darkness and
danger unite to appal the seaman.

" The schooner has it!" cried Griffith; " Barnstable has held
on, like himself, to the last moment — God send that the squall
leave him cloth enough to keep him from the shore ! "

"His sails are easily handled," 'the commander observed, "and
she must be over the principal danger. We are falling off before
it, Mr Gray ; shall we try a cast of the lead ? ';

The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and moved
slowly across the deck before he returned any reply to this ques-
tion— like a man who not only felt that everything depended on
himself, but that he was equal to the emergency.

" Tis unnecessary," he at length said ; " 'twould be certain de-
struction to be taken aback, and it is difficult to say, within several
points, how the wind may strike us."

" 'Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith ; " for here it comes and
in right earnest ! "

The rushing sounds of the wind were now indeed heard at hand,
and the words were hardly passed the lips of the young lieutenant
before the vessel bowed down heavily to one side, and then, as
she began to move through the water, rose again majestically to
her upright position, as if saluting, like a courteous champion, the
powerful antagonist with which she was about to contend. Not
another minute elapsed before the ship was throwing the waters
aside with a lively progress, and obedient to her helm, was brought
as near to the desired course as the direction of the wind would
allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards gradually subsided, and
the men slowly descended to the deck, all straining their eyes to
pierce the gloom in which they were enveloped, and some shaking
their heads in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehen-
sions they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited for
the fury of the gale ; for there were none so ignorant or inexperi-
enced in that gallant frigate as not to know that they as yet only
felt the infant efforts of the winds. Each moment, however, it

COOPER.] THE ARIEL AMONG THE SHOALS. 247

increased in power, though so gradual was the alteration, that the
relieved mariners began to believe that all their gloomy forebod-
ings were not to be realised. During this short interval of uncer-
tainty, no other sounds were heard than the whistling of the breeze,
as it passed quickly through the mass of rigging that belonged to
the vessel, and the dashing of the spray that began to fly from her
bows like the foam of a cataract.

" It blows fresh," cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in
that moment of doubt and anxiety; "but it is no more than a
cap-full of wind after all. Give us elbow room and the right
canvas, Mr Pilot, and I'll handle the ship like a gentleman's
yacht in this breeze."

" Will she stay, think ye, under this sail ] " said the low voice
of the stranger.

" She will do all that man in reason can ask of wood and iron,"
returned the lieutenant ; " but the vessel don't float the ocean that
will tack under double-reefed topsails alone against a heavy sea.
Help her with the courses, pilot, and you ;11 see her come round
like a dancing master."

" Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned the man
who was called Mr Gray, moving from the side of Griffith to the
weather gangway of the vessel, where he stood in silence, look-
ing ahead of the ship with an air of singular coolness and abstrac-
tion.

All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the
frigate when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the
gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a faint light that was
a good deal aided by the glittering foam of the waters, which now
broke in white curls around the vessel in every direction. The
land could be faintly discerned, rising like a heavy bank ot
black fog above the margin of the waters, and was only dis-
tinguishable from the heavens by its deeper gloom and obscurity.
The last rope was coiled and deposited in its proper place by the
seamen, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded
the crowded decks. It was evident to every one that their ship
was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves ; and, as she

248 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

was approaching, with such velocity, the quarter of the bay where
the shoals and dangers were known to be situated, nothing but
the habits of the most exact discipline could suppress the un-
easiness of the officers and men within their own bosoms. At
length the voice of Captain Munson w*as heard calling to the
pilot.

" Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr Gray," he said, " and
try our water 1 "

" Tack your ship, sir, tack your ship ; I would see how she
works before we reach the point where she must behave well, or
we perish."

Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly paced
the quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth
the cheering order that called each man to his station to perform
the desired evolution. The confident assurances which the young
officer had given to the pilot respecting the qualities of his vessel,
and his own ability to manage her, were fully realised by the
result. The helm was no sooner put a-lee, than the huge ship
bore up gallantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through
the waves, threw the foam high into the air as she looked boldly
into the very eye of the wind, and then, yielding gracefully to its
power, she fell off on the other tack with her head pointed from
those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached with
such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round as if they
had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air, and, in a few
moments, the frigate again moved with stately progress through
the water, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on the other
side of the bay, but advancing toward those that offered equal
danger on the other.

During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the
violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no
longer whistled amid the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to
howl surlily as it passed the complicated machinery that the
frigate obtruded on its path. An endless succession of white
surges rose above the heavy billows and the very air was glitter-
ing with the light that was disengaged from the ocean. The

COOPER.] THE ARIEL AMONG THE SHOALS.

249

ship yielded each moment more and more before the storm, and,
in less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her
anchor, she was driven along with tremendous fury by the full
power of a gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced mari-
ners who directed her movements held her to the course that
was necessary to their preservation, and still Griffith gave forth,
when directed by their unknown pilot, those orders that turned
her in the narrow channel where safety was alone to be found.

So far the performance of his duty appeared easy to the
stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still calm
tones that formed so remarkable a contrast to the responsibility
of his situation. But when the land was becoming dim, in dis-
tance as well as darkness, and the agitated sea was only to be
discovered as it swept by them in foam, he broke in upon the
monotonous roaring of the tempest with the sounds of his voice,
seeming to shake off his apathy and rouse himself to the occasion.

" Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr Griffith," he cried ]
" here we get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best
quartermaster of your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand
by him and see that he gives us the right water."

" I will take that office on myself," said the captain • " pass a
light into the weather main-chains/'

" Stand by your braces ! " exclaimed the pilot, with startling
quickness. " Heave away that lead ! "

These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, and
every officer and man stood in fearful silence, at his assigned
station, awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the quartermaster
at the con gave out his orders to the men at the wheel in deeper
and hoarser tones than usual, as if anxious not to disturb the
quiet and order of the vessel.

While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the piercing
cry of the leadsman, as he called, " By the mark seven ! " rose
above the tempest, crossed over the decks, and appeared to pass
away to leeward, borne on the blast like the warnings of some
water spirit.

" 'Tis well," returned the pilot, calmly j " try it again."

250 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COOPER.

The short pause was succeeded by another cry, " And a half-
five!"

"She shoals! she shoals !"* exclaimed Griffith; "keep her a
good full"

"Ay, you must hold the vessel in command now," said the
pilot, with these cool tones that are most appalling in critical
moments, because they seem to denote most preparation and
care.

The third call of "By the deep four!" was followed by a
prompt 'direction from the stranger to tack.

Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in issuing
the necessary orders to execute their manoeuvre.

The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into which
she had been forced by the tempest, and the sails were shaking
violently, as if to release themselves from their confinement,
while the ship stemmed the billows, when the well-known voice
of the sailing-master was heard shouting from the forecastle —
" Breakers, breakers dead ahead ! "

This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering about the ship,
when a second voice cried — " Breakers on our lee-bow ! "

"We are in a bight of the shoals, Mr Gray," said the com-
mander ; " she loses her way ; perhaps an anchor might hold her."

"Clear away that best-bovver!" shouted Griffith, through his
trumpet.

" Hold on ! " cried the pilot, in a voice that reached the very
hearts of all who heard him ; " hold on everything."

The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger who thus
defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once demanded — " Who
is it that dares to countermand my orders ? — is it not enough that
you run the ship into danger, but you must interfere to keep her
there 1 If another word "

" Peace, Mr Griffith/' interrupted the captain, bending from the
rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind, and adding a
look of wildness to the haggard care that he exhibited by the
light of his lantern ; " yield the trumpet to Mr Gray ; he alone

COOPER.] THE ARIEL AMONG THE SHOALS. 251

Griffith threw his speaking-trumpet on the deck, and, as he
walked proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feeling — "Then
all is lost indeed, and among the rest, the foolish hopes with
which I visited this coast."

There was, however, no time for reply; the ship had been
rapidly running into the wind, and, as the efforts of the crew \vere
paralysed by the contradictory orders they had heard, she gra-
dually lost her way, and in a few seconds all her sails were taken
aback.

Before the crew understood their situation, the pilot had ap-
plied the trumpet to his mouth, and, in a voice that rose above
the tempest, he thundered forth his orders. Each command was
given distinctly, and with a precision that showed him to be
master of his profession. The helm was kept fast, the head-
yards swung up heavily against the wind, and the vessel was soon
whirling round on her keel with a retrograde movement.

Griffith was too much of a seaman not to perceive that the
pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the only
method that promised to extricate the vessel from her situation.
He was young, impetuous, and proud ; but he was also gener-
ous. Forgetting his resentment and his mortification, he rushed
forward among the men, and, by his presence and example,
added certainty to the experiment The ship fell off slowly
before the gale, and bowed her yards nearly to the water, as
she felt the blast pouring its fury on her broadside, while the
surly waves beat violently against her stern, as if in reproach at
departing from her usual manner of moving.

The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady and
calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear ; and the
obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding in despite of
the tempest, as if they handled the toys of their childhood.
When the ship had fallen off dead before the wind, her head-
sails were shaken, her after-yards trimmed, and her helm shifted
before she had time to run upon the danger that had threatened,
as well to leeward as to windward. The beautiful fabric, obe-
dient to her government, threw her bows up gracefully toward

252 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COOPER.

the wind again, and, as her sails were trimmed, moved out from
amongst the dangerous shoals in which she had been embayed,
as steadily and swiftly as she had approached them.

A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the accom-
plishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no time for the
usual expressions of surprise. The stranger still held the trumpet,
and continued to lift his voice amid the howlings of the blast,
whenever prudence or skill directed any change in the manage-
ment of the ship. For an hour longer there was a fearful struggle
for their preservation, the channel becoming at each step more
complicated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners on
every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick eye of the
pilot seemed to pierce the darkness with a keenness of vision that
exceeded human power. It was apparent to all in the vessel, that
they were under the guidance of one who understood the naviga-
tion thoroughly, and their exertions kept pace with their reviving
confidence. Again and again the frigate appeared to be rushing
blindly on shoals, where the sea was covered with foam, and
where destruction would have been as sudden as it was certain,
when the clear voice of the stranger was heard warning them of
the danger, and inciting them to their duty. The vessel was im-
plicitly yielded to his government, and during those anxious mo-
ments, when she was dashing the waters aside, throwing the
spray over her enormous yards, each ear would listen eagerly
for those sounds that had obtained a command over the crew,
that can only be acquired, under such circumstances, by great
steadiness and consummate skill. The ship was recovering from
the inaction of changing her course in one of those critical tacks
that she had. made so often, when the pilot, for the first time, ad-
dressed the commander of the frigate, who still continued to
superintend the all-important duty of the leadsman.

" Now is the pinch," he said ; " and, if the ship behaves well,
we are safe — but, if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless."

The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this
portentous notice, and, calling to his first lieutenant, required of
the stranger an explanation of his warning.

COOPER.] THE ARIEL AMONG THE SHOALS. 253

"See you yon light on the southern headland?" returned the
pilot ; " you may know it from the star near it by its sinking, at
times, in the ocean. Now observe the hammock, a little north
of it, looking like a shadow in the horizon — 'tis a hill far inland.
If we keep that light open from the hill, we shall do well — but, if
not, we surely go to pieces."

" Let us tack again ! " exclaimed the lieutenant.

The pilot shook his head, as he replied, " There is no more
tacking or box-hauling to be done to-night. We have barely
room to pass out of the shoals on this course, and, if we can
weather the ' Devil's Grip,' we clear their uttermost point — but if
not, as I said before, there is but an alternative."

" If we had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed .Grif-
fith, " we should have done well."

" Say, also, if the tide would have let us done so," returned
the pilot, calmly. " Gentlemen, we must be prompt ; we have
but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is
not enough to keep her up to the wind ; we want both gib and
mainsail."

" 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tempest 1"
observed the doubtful captain.

" It must be done," returned the collected stranger ; " we per-
ish without. See ! the light already touches the edge of the hum-
mock ; the sea casts us to leeward !"

" It shall be done !" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from the
hand of the pilot.

The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as
issued, and, everything being ready, the enormous folds of the
mainsail were trusted loose to the blast. There was an instant
when the result was doubtful ; the tremendous threshing of the
heavy sails seeming to bid defiance to all restraint, shaking the
ship to her centre ; but art and strength prevailed, and gradually
the canvas was distended, and, bellying as it filled, was drawn
down to its usual place by the power of a hundred men. The
vessel yielded to this immense addition of force, and bowed
before it like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the

254 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COOPER.

measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger that
seemed to burst from his inmost soul.

"She feels it! she springs her luff! observe," he said, "the
light opens from the hummock already ; if she will only bear her
canvas, we shall go clear!"

A report like that of a cannon interrupted his exclamation, and
something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before the
wind from the head of the ship till it was driven into the gloom
far to leeward.

" 'Tis the gib blown from the bolt-ropes," said the commander
of the frigate. " This is no time to spread light duck — but the
mainsail may stand it yet."

" The sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the lieutenant ;
" but that mast springs like a piece of steel."

" Silence all ! " cried the pilot. " Now, gentlemen, we shall
soon know our fate. Let her luff — luff you can."

This warning effectually closed all discourse, and the hardy
mariners, knowing that they had already done all in the power of
man to insure their safety, stood in breathless anxiety awaiting
the result. At a short distance ahead of them, the whole ocean
was white with foam, and the waves, instead of rolling on in
regular succession, appeared to be tossing about in mad gambols.
A single streak of dark billows, not half a cable's length in
width, could be discerned running into this chaos of water; but
it was soon lost to the eye amid the confusion of the disturbed
element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more
heavily than before, being brought so near the wind as to keep
her sails touching. The pilot silently proceeded to the wheel,
and with his. own hands he undertook the steerage of the ship.
No noise proceeded from the frigate to interrupt the horrid
tumult of the ocean, and she entered the channel among the
breakers with the silence of a desperate calmness. Twenty
times, as the foam rolled away to leeward, the crew were on the
eve of uttering their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the
danger ; but breaker after breaker would still rise before them,
following each other into the general mass to check their exulta-

GOLDSMITH.] OX THE SAGACITY OF THE SPIDER. 255

tion. Occasionally the fluttering of the sails would be heard ;
and when the looks of the startled seamen were turned to the
wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its spokes, with his
quick eye glancing from the water to the canvas. At length the
ship reached a point where she appeared to be rushing directly
into the jaws of destruction, when suddenly her course was
changed, and her head receded rapidly from the wind. At the
same instant the voice of the pilot was heard shouting — " Square
away the yards ! — in mainsail."

A general burst from the crew echoed, " Square away the
yards ! " and quick as thought the frigate was seen gliding along
the channel before the wind. The eye had hardly time to dwell
on the foam, which seemed like clouds driving in the heavens,
and directly the gallant vessel issued from her perils, and rose
and fell on the heavy waves of the open sea.

224. — (9rt tjre Sagacitg xrf tlj*

GOLDSMITH.

OF all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, the spider is
the most sagacious, and its actions, to me, who have attentively
considered them, seem almost to exceed belief. This insect is
formed by nature for a state of war, not only upon other insects,
but upon each other. For this state, nature seems perfectly well
to have formed it. Its head and breast are covered with a strong
natural coat of mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of every
other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a soft pliant skin,
which eludes the sting even of a wasp. Its legs are terminated
by strong claws, not unlike those of a lobster j and their vast
length, like spears, serve to keep every assailant at a distance.

Not worse furnished for observation than for an attack or de-
fence, it has several eyes, large, transparent, and covered with a
horny substance, which, however, does not impede its vision.
Besides this, it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth, which

256 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GOLDSMITH.

serves to kill or secure the prey already caught in its claws or its
net.

Such are the implements of war with which the body is immedi-
ately furnished ; but its net to entangle the enemy seems what it
chiefly trusts to, and what it takes most pains to render as com-
plete as possible. Nature has furnished the body of this little
creature with a glutinous liquid, which, proceeding from the anus, it
spins into thread, coarser or finer as it chooses to contract or dilate
its sphincter. In order to fix its threads when it begins to weave,
it emits a small drop of its liquid against the wall, which, hardening
by degrees, serves to hold the thread very firmly. Then reced-
ing from the first point, as it recedes the thread lengthens j and
when the spider has come to the place where the other end of
the thread should be fixed, gathering up with its claws the thread,
which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched tightly, and
fixed in the same manner to the wall as before.

In this manner it spins and fixes several threads parallel to
each other, which, so to speak, serve as the warp to the intended
web. To form the woof, it spins in the same manner its thread,
transversely fixing one end to the first thread that was spun, and
which is always the strongest of the whole web, and the other to
the wall. All these threads, being newly spun, are glutinous, and
therefore stick to each other, wherever they happen to touch ;
and in those parts of the web most exposed to be torn, our natural
artist strengthens them, by doubling the threads sometimes sixfold.

Thus far, naturalists have gone in the description of this
animal : what follows is the result of my own observation upon
that species of the insect called the house-spider. I perceived,
about four years ago, a large spider in one corner of my room,
making its web, and though the maid frequently levelled her
fatal broom against the labours of the little animal, I had the
good fortune then to prevent its destruction, and, I may say, it
more than paid me by the entertainment it afforded.

In three days the web was with incredible diligence completed ;
nor could I avoid thinking that the insect seemed to exult in its
new abode. It frequently traversed it round, and examined the

GOLDSMITH.] ON THE SAGACITY OF THE SPIDER. 257

strength of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came out
very frequently. The first enemy, however, it had to encounter,
was another and a much larger spider, which, having no web of
its own, and having probably exhausted all its stock in former
labours of this kind, came to invade the property of its neighbour.
Soon, then, a terible encounter ensued, in which the invader
seemed to have the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged
to take refuge in its hole. Upon this I perceived the victor using
every art to draw the enemy from his stronghold. He seemed
to go off, but quickly returned, and when he found all arts vain,
began to demolish the new web without mercy. This brought on
another battle, and, contrary to my expectations, the laborious
spider became conqueror, and fairly killed his antagonist.

Now then, in peaceable possession of what was justly its own,
it waited three days with the utmost impatience, repairing the
breaches of its web, and taking no sustenance that I could per-
ceive. At last, however, a large blue fly fell into the snare, and
struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave it leave to entangle
itself as much as possible, but it seemed to be too strong for the
cobweb. I must own I was greatly surprised when I saw the
spider immediately sally out, and in less than a minute weave a
new net round its captive, by which the motion of its wings was
stopped, and when it was fairly hampered in this manner, it was
seized and dragged into the hole.

In this manner it lived, in a precarious state, and nature seemed
to have fitted it for such a life : for upon a single fly it subsisted
for more than a week. I once put a wasp into the nest, but
when the spider came out in order to seize it as usual, upon per-
ceiving what kind of an enemy it had to deal with, it instantly
broke all the bands that held it fast, and contributed all that lay
in its power to disengage so formidable an antagonist. When
the wasp was at liberty, I expected the spider would have set
about repairing the breaches that were made in its net ; but
those, it seems, were irreparable, wherefore the cobweb was now
entirely forsaken, and a new one begun, which was completed in
the usual time.

VOL. in. R

258 HALF-HOURS -WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GOLDSMITH.

I had now a mind to try how many cobwebs a single spider
could furnish : wherefore I destroyed this, and the insect set
about another. When I destroyed the other also, its whole stock
seemed entirely exhausted, and it could spin no more. The arts
it made use of to support itself, now deprived of its great means
of subsistence, were indeed surprising. I have seen it roll up
its legs like a ball, and lie motionless for hours together, but
cautiously watching all the time ; when a fly happened to ap-
proach sufficiently near, it would dart out all at once, and often
seize its prey.

Of this life, however, it soon began to grow weaiy, and re-
solved to invade the possession of some other spider, since it
could not make a web of its own. It formed an attack upon a
neighbouring fortification, with great vigour, and at first was as
vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, however, with one defeat, in
this manner it continued to lay siege to another's web for three
days, and at length, having killed the defendant, actually took
possession. When smaller flies happen to fall into the snare, the
spider does not sally out at once, but very patiently waits till it
is sure of them ; for upon his immediately approaching, the terror
of his appearance might give the captive strength sufficient to get
loose ; the manner then is to wait patiently till, by ineffectual and
impotent struggles, the captive has wasted all its strength, and then
he becomes a certain and easy conquest.

The insect I am now describing lived three years ; every year
it changed its skin, and got a new set of legs. I have sometimes
plucked off a leg, which grew again in two or three days. At
first it dreaded my approach to its web ; but at last it became so
familiar as to .take a fly out of my hand, and upon my touching
any part of the web, would immediately^ leave its hole, prepared
either for a defence or an attack.

DRKITTO.] JERUSALEM.

259

225.—

[From the Notes of Dr Kittos " Pictorial Bible."]
JERUSALEM lies near the summit of a broad mountain ridge.
This ridge or mountainous tract extends, without interruption,
from the plain of Esdraelon to a line drawn between the south
end of the Dead Sea and the south-east corner of the Mediterra-
nean ; or more properly, perhaps, it may be regarded as extend-
ing as far as the southern desert, where, at Jebel Araif, it sinks
down at once to the level of the great plateau. This tract, which
is nowhere less than from twenty to twenty-five geographical
miles in breadth, is, in fact, high, uneven table-land. The surface
of this upper region is everywhere rocky, uneven, and mountain-
ous, and is, moreover, cut up by deep valleys which run east or
west on either side towards the Jordan or the Mediterranean.

From the great plain of Esdraelon onwards towards the south,
the mountainous country rises gradually, forming the tract an-
ciently known as the mountains of Ephraim and Judah ; until,
in the vicinity of Hebron, it attains an elevation of 3250 feet
above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Farther north, on a
line drawn from the north end of the Dead Sea towards the true
west, the ridge has an elevation of only about 2710 feet; and
here, close upon the watershed, lies the city of Jerusalem. Its
mean geographical position is in lat. 31° 46' 43" N., and long.
35 13' E. from Greenwich.

The traveller on his way from Ramleh to Jerusalem, at about
an hour and a half distance therefrom, descends into and crosses
the great Terebinth vale, or valley of Elah. On again reaching
the high ground on its eastern side, he enters upon an open tract
sloping gradually downwards towards the east, and sees before
him, at the distance of about two miles, the walls and domes of
the city, and beyond them the highest ridge of Olivet. The
traveller now descends gradually towards the town along a broad
swell of ground, having at some distance on his left the shallow
northern part of the valley of Jehoshaphat, and close at hand on

260 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Dn KITTO

his right the basin which forms the beginning of the valley of
Hinnom. Farther down both these valleys become deep, narrow,
and precipitous ; that of Hinnom bends south, and again east,
nearly at right angles, and unites with the other, which then con-
tinues its course to the Dead Sea. Upon the broad and elevated
promontory within the fork of the two valleys of Jehoshaphat
and of Hinnom, lies the holy city. All around are higher hills :
on the east the Mount of Olives, on the south the Hill of Evil
Counsel, so called, rising directly from the vale of Hinnom, on
the west the ground rises gently, as above described, to the
borders of the great valley ; while, on the north, a bend of the
ridge connected with the Mount of Olives bounds the prospect
at a distance of more than a mile. Towards the south-west the
view is somewhat more open ; for here lies the plain of Rephaim,
commencing just at the southern brink of the valley of Hinnom,
and stretching off south-west, when it runs to the western sea.
In the north-west, too, the eye reaches up along the upper part
of the valley of Jehoshaphat, and from many points can discern the
mosque of Neby Samwil, (Prophet Samuel,) situated on a lofty
ridge beyond the great valley, at the distance of two hours.

The surface of the elevated promontory itself, on which the
city stands, slopes somewhat steeply towards the east, terminating
on the brink of the valley of Jehoshaphat. From the northern
part, near the present Damascus gate, a depression or shallow
valley runs in a southern direction, having on the west the ancient
hills of Akra and Zion, and on the east the lower ones of Bezetha
and Moriah. Between the hills of Akra and Zion another depres-
sion or shallow valley (still easy to be traced) comes down from
near the Jaffa gate, and joins the former. It then continues ob-
liquely down the slope, but with a deeper bed in a southern
direction, quite to the pool of Siloam and the valley of Jehosha-
phat. This is the ancient Tyropoeon. West of its lower part
Zion rises loftily, lying mostly without the modern city ; while
on the east of the Tyropceon and the valley first mentioned lie
Bezetha, Moriah, and Ophel, the last a long and comparatively
narrow ridge, also outside of the modern city, and terminating in

DRKITTO.] JERUSALEM. 26l

a rocky point over the pool of Siloam. These last three hills
may strictly be taken as only parts of one and the same ridge.
The breadth of the whole site of Jerusalem from the brow of the
valley of Hinnom, near the Jaffa gate, to the brink of the valley
of Jehoshaphat, is about one thousand and twenty yards, or
nearly half a geographical mile ; of which distance three hundred
and eighteen yards are occupied by the area of the great mosque
of Omar, which occupies the site of Solomon's temple. North of
the Jaffa gate the city wall sweeps round more to the west, and
increases the breadth of the city in that part. The country
around Jerusalem is all of limestone formation. The rocks
everywhere come out above the surface, which in many parts is
also thickly strewed with loose stones ; and the aspect of the
whole region is barren and dreary ; yet the olive thrives here
abundantly, and fields of grain are seen in the valleys and level
places, but they are less productive than in the region of
Hebron and Nabulus. Neither vineyards nor fig-trees flourish
on the high ground around the city, though the latter are found
in the gardens below Siloam, and very frequently in the vicinity
of Bethlehem.

The Scripture affords few materials for a connected view of
the ancient city ; and although Josephus is more particular, the
idea which he furnishes is less distinct than it may at the first
view appear. His descriptions also refer to a time later even
than that of Christ, although in all essential points applicable to
the New Testament period ; and then the city had become in
most respects very different from the more ancient city which the
Old Testament presents to our notice. Still his account affords
certain leading ideas which must have been applicable at all
periods, and its substance may therefore be stated in this place.
He describes Jerusalem as being in his time enclosed by a triple
wall, wherever it was not encircled by impassable valleys ; for
there it had but a single wall. The ancient city lay upon two
hills over against each other, separated by an intervening valley,
at which the houses terminated. Of these hills, that (Zion)
which bore the upper city was the highest, and was straighter in

262 HA LF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [DK KITTO.

extent. On account of its fortifications, it was called by King
David the Fortress or Citadel ; but in the time of the historian it
was known as the Upper Market. The other hill, sustaining the
lower city, and called Akra, had the form of the gibbous moon.
Over against this was a third hill, naturally lower than Akra, and
separated from it by another broad valley. But in the time when
the Asmonaeans had rule they threw earth into this valley, intend-
ing to connect the city with the temple; and working upon
Akra, they lowered the height of it, so that the temple rose con-
spicuously above it. The valley of the Tyropoeon or Cheese-
makers, as it was called, which has already been mentioned as
separating the hills of the upper and lower city, extended quite
down to Siloam — a fountain so named, whose waters were sweet
and abundant. From without, the two hills of the city were en-
closed by deep valleys ; and there was no approach because of
the precipices on every side.

Dr Robinson, in comparing the information derivable from
Josephus with his own materials, declares that the main features
depicted by the Jewish historian may still be recognised. " True,"
he says, " the valley of the Tyropoeon and that between Akra and
Moriah have been greatly filled up with the rubbish accumulated
from the repeated desolations of nearly eighteen centuries. Yet
they are still distinctly to be traced ; the hills of Zion, Akra,
Moriah, and Bezetha are not to be mistaken, while the deep val-
leys of the Kidron, and of Hinnom, and the Mount of Olives are
permanent natural features, too prominent and gigantic indeed to
be forgotten, or to undergo any perceptible change."

Recurring to the walls, Josephus says : " Of these three walls,
the old one was hard to be taken ; both by reason of the valleys,
and of that hill on which it was built, and which was above
them. But besides that great advantage, as to the place where
they were situate, it was also built very strong : because David,
and Solomon, and the following kings, were very zealous about
this work." After some further account of the walls, which has
no immediate connexion with our present subject, he adds that
" the city in its ultimate extension included another hill, the

DRKITTO.] JERUSALEM. 263

fourth, called Bezetha, to the north of the temple, from which it
was separated by a deep artificial ditch."

From this account of Josephus, as compared with those furnished
by others, it appears that Jerusalem stood on three hills, Mount
Zion, Mount Akra, and Mount Moriah, on which last the temple
stood. Or we may consider them as two, after Mount Akra had
been levelled, and the valley filled up which separated it from
Mount Moriah. Of these hills Zion was the highest, and con-
tained the upper city, " the city of David/' with the citadel, the
strength of which, and of the position on which it stood, enabled
the Jebusites so long to retain it as their stronghold, and to main-
tain their command over the lower part of the city, even when
they were obliged to allow the Israelites to share in its occupa-
tion. This Mount Zion (which we are only here noticing cursorily)
formed the southern portion of the ancient city. It is almost ex-
cluded from the modern city, and is under partial cultivation. It
is nearly a mile in circumference, is highest on the western side,
and towards the east slopes down in broad terraces in the upper
part of the mountain, and narrow ones on the side, towards the
brook Kidron. This mount is considerably higher than the
ground on which the ancient (lower) city stood, or that on the
east leading to the valley of Jehoshaphat, but has very little re-
lative height above the ground on the south and on the west, and.
must have owed its boasted strength principally to a deep ravine,
by which it is encompassed on the east, south, and west, and the
strong high walls and towers by which it was enclosed and
flanked completely round. The breadth of this ravine is about
one hundred and fifty feet, and its depth, or the height of Mount
Zion above the bottom of the ravine, above sixty feet. The
bottom is rock, covered with a thin sprinkling of earth, and in the
winter season is the natural channel for conveying off the water
that falls into it from the higher ground. On both of its sides the
rock is cut perpendicularly down ; and it was probably the quarry
from which much of the stone was taken for the building of the
city.

The site, regarded as a whole, without further attending to the

264 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DR KITTO.

distinction of hills, is surrounded on the east, west, and south by
valleys of various depth and breadth, but to the north-west extends
into the plain, which in this part is called " the plain of Jeremiah,"
and is the best woody tract in the whole neighbourhood. The
progressive extension of the city was thus necessarily northward,
as stated by Josephus. The town most probably, almost cer-
tainly, began at the southern, or Mount Zion. part of this site, and
in its ultimate extension, according to Josephus, comprehended a
circuit of thirty-three furlongs ; whereas that of the modern town
does not appear to exceed two miles and a half. The confining
valleys are often mentioned in Scripture. Those on the east and
south are very deep. The former is the valley of Jehoshaphat,
through which flows the brook Kidron, and the latter is generally
called the valley of Hinnom. This denomination is extended by
some topographers also to the western and least deep valley,
while others call it the valley of Gihon. On the opposite side of
these valleys rise hills, which are mostly of superior elevation to
that of the site of the city itself. That on the east, beyond the
brook Kidron, is the Mount of Olives. That on the south is
a broad and barren hill, loftier than the Mount of Olives, but
without any of its picturesque beauty. On the west there is a
rocky flat, which rises to a considerable elevation towards the
north, and to which has been assigned the name of Mount Gihon.
Even in the north-east, at Scopus, where the besieging Romans
under Titus encamped, the ground is considerably more elevated
than the immediate site of the town. Thus is explained the ex-
pression of David : " As the mountains are round about Jeru-
salem, so the Lord is round about his people," (Ps. cxxv. 2.)
The relative height of those surrounding hills gives to the city an
apparent elevation inferior to that which it really possesses. The
district for many miles round Jerusalem is now of a very barren and
cheerless character, whatever may have been its ancient condi-
tion. Solomon must be considered as having permanently fixed
its metropolitan character, by the erection of the temple and the
royal establishment. But it was the temple, chiefly, which in all
ages maintained Jerusalem as the metropolis of the country.

VARIOUS.] THE PATRIOTIC SONGS OF GREAT BRITAIN, 26$

Even after the destruction of that venerated fabric, the mere fact
that it had existed there operated in preventing the selection of
any new site, even when the opportunity occurred. The separa-
tion into two kingdoms, after the death of Solomon, did also
necessarily prevent any intentions of change which might have
arisen, had the whole country remained one kingdom, with a
large choice of situations for a capital ; and we are to remember
that, although, after the erection of the temple, it always remained
the ecclesiastical metropolis of the land, it was, in a civil sense, for
a long series of years, the capital of only the smallest of the two
kingdoms into which the land was divided. But under all disad-
vantages, many of which are perhaps the result of the wars, the
desolations, and the neglect of many ages, the very situation of
the town, on the brink of rugged hills, encircled by deep and wild
valleys, bounded by eminences whose sides were covered with
groves and gardens, added to its numerous towers and temple,
must, as Carne remarks, have given it a singular and gloomy
magnificence, scarcely possessed by any other city in the world.

Mr Rae Williams says, the general view of this part of the
country, as seen from the Mount of Olives, reminded him of
many parts of the Highlands of Scotland — " A scene of hills, like
an ocean, fixed at once into solidity when heaving in its wildest
fury."

226.— &[£ atrbtix Stfits 0f (grtat rttnm— I.

VARIOUS.

ONE of our statesmen is reported to have exclaimed, "Give me the making
of a nation's ballads, and I care not who makes its laws." Though this senti-
ment was somewhat exaggerated, there can be no doubt of the power of those
impressions which are communicated to a people by the aid of music ; and
history furnishes us some remarkable instances of the effect of popular songs
in stimulating a multitude. The expulsion of a band of tyrants from Athens
has been ascribed to the influence of an ode which was a universal favourite of
the people ; violent and sanguinary sentiments engrafted upon well-known airs
incited the populace to many of the atrocities of the French Revolution ;

266 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

while, at the same period, in England, the bold and loyal spirit of our navy
was kept alive by a series of songs, wonderfully adapted to the modes of
thinking and customs of seafaring life. It is perhaps not too much to say that
the character of a people is, in some degree, formed by its stores of national
ballads.

The English possess four or five patriotic airs, which are often heard on
public occasions ; which the people themselves sing with an honest enthu-
siasm ; — which are re-echoed through the land in times of danger ; and which,
therefore, form part of that invincible armoury of defence which is found in
national character. We appear to have a greater stock of such songs than
any other nations ; not light and ephemeral productions, but airs which have
an abiding-place in the heart of the whole population. These songs are of
the very genius of our constitution ; and it is only in a country of freedom
that they would possess an interest so warm and so universal.

The most popular song in the world is our "God save the Queen." The
history of its composition is very uncertain. Perhaps the best sustained theory
is that it was originally a Jacobite song, written during the rebellion of 1715,
by Henry Carey, and partly composed by him. It nished into popularity at
the English theatres in 1745; and Carey himself sang it publicly in 1740,
having changed "James" to "George." The air is simple, and yet stately.
It is capable of calling forth the talents of the finest vocal performers ; and
yet is admirably adapted for a chorus, in which the humblest pretender to
music may join. The words are not elegant, but they are very expressive ;
and the homeliness of some of the lines may have contributed to its univer-
sality. It is one of those very rare productions which never pall ; which
either from habit, or association, or intrinsic excellence, are always pleasing.
Its popularity is so recognised, that it is now often called the " National
Anthem."

The next song in point of popularity is " Rule Britannia." It was written
by Thomson, and was first performed at Cliefden, before the parents of George
III., in 1740, in the mask of Alfred, which he wrote in conjunction with
Mallet. The music of this celebrated song is by Dr Arne. The music with-
out the words is never heard without enthusiasm ; and the words cannot be
read without exciting an elevated feeling of national pride.

RULE, BRITANNIA.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main ;
This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung this strain :
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves ! "

VAR'OUS.] THE PATRIOTIC SONGS OF GREAT BRITAIN. 267

The nations not so blest as thee,

Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall :
While thou shalt flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.
' Rule," &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke :

As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.
" Rule," &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame \
All their attempts to bend thee down

Will but arouse thy generous flame ;
But work their woe, and thy renown.
" Rule," &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign ;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine :
All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine.
" Rule," &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair ;
Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.

" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves j
Britons never will be slaves ! "

There is another very beautiful though less popular song, of the same char-
acter,— "Britain's best Bulwarks are her Wooden Walls." This was written
and composed by Dr Arne.

When Britain on her sea-girt shore

Her ancient Druids erst address'd,
What aid, she cried, shall I implore 1

What best defence, by numbers press'd 1

268 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

The hostile nations round thee rise, —

The mystic oracles replied, —
. And view thine isle with envious eyes ;

Their threats defy, their jrage deride,
Nor fear invasion from those adverse Gauls :
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Thine oaks, descending to the main,

With floating forts shall stem the tide,
Asserting Britain's liquid reign,

Where'er her thundering navies ride.
Nor less to peaceful arts inclined,

Where commerce opens all her stores,
In social bands shall league mankind,

And join the sea-divided shores.
Spread thy white sails where naval glory calls :
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Hail, happy isle ! What though thy vales

No vine-impurpled tribute yield,
Nor fann'd with odour-breathing gales,

Nor crops spontaneous glad the field,
Yet liberty rewards the toil

Of industry to labour prone,
Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil,

And reaps the harvest she has sown ;
While other realms tyrannic sway enthrals,
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

One of our most animating compositions of a warlike nature is, " Britons,
strike home ! " It was first performed in the tragedy of "Queen Boadicea, or
the British Heroine," in 1696. The music is by the great composer, Henry
PurcelL The following are the words : —

To arms, to arms, your ensigns straight display,

Now set the battle in array ; —

The oracle for Avar declares,

Success depends upon our hearts and spears.

VARIOUS.] THE PA TRIOTIC SONGS OF GREA T BRITAIN. 269

Britons, strike home ! revenge your country's wrongs ;
Fight, and record yourselves in Druids' songs.

It is affirmed that the music of this song was played as the great Marlbo-
rough led his troops to the attack at the battle of Blenheim. We were present
on an occasion when it was performed under very peculiar circumstances. It
was in 1805, when the alarm of French invasion was general, and the national
spirit was called forth in the most zealous preparations to defend our altars
•and our homes ; and when the great Nelson was in search of the combined
fleets previous to the battle of Trafalgar. George III. was walking on
Windsor Terrace. He was surrounded by all ranks of his subjects. The
military band were about to play "Rule Britannia," when the king stepped up
to them, and with a loud voice called out, " No, no ! let us have ' Britons,
strike home ! ' " The air was immediately played ; and it seemed as if it
strengthened the bonds of affection and fidelity between the sovereign and the
people.

A great portion of the Patriotic Songs of England have reference to her
character as a maritime nation. These allusions not only preserve amongst
the people generally a habit of referring to the great cause of our national
triumphs, but they keep alive amongst the seamen those proud and heroic
feelings which sustain their superiority in the clay of battle. We shall
introduce this part of our subject by the following beautiful adaptation of
modern words to a fine old air, "Ye Mariners of England." This noble
song is by Thomas Campbell.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Mariners of England, Your manly hearts shall glow,

That guard our nalive seas ; As ye sweep through the deep,

Whose flag has braved, a thousand While the stormy tempests blow ;

years, While the battle rages loud and long,

The battle and the breeze ! And the stormy tempests blow.
Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe ! Britannia needs no bulwarks —

And sweep through the deep, No towers along the steep ;

While the stormy tempests blow ; Her march is o'er the mountain
While the battle rages loud and long, waves,

And the stormy tempests blow. Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

The spirits of your fathers She quells the floods below,

Shall start from every wave! — As they roar on the shore,

For the Deck it was their field of When the stormy tempests blow ;

fame, When the battle rages loud and
And Ocean was their grave : long,

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, And the stormy tempests blow.

270 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Tnos. WARTOK.

The meteor flag of England To the fame of your name,

Shall yet terrific burn; When the storm has ceased to blow;

Till danger's troubled night depart, When the fiery fight is heard no

And the star of peace return. more,

Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! And the storm has ceased to blow.

Our song and feast shall flow

227.— f0*trg of % Sjje of

THOMAS WARTON.

[THOMAS WARTON, a distinguished critic, whose literary taste was in
many respects before his age, is chiefly known by his "History of English
Poetry, " from which the following is an extract. He was himself a poet, and of
no mean order ; and in his writings may be found the germ of attempts which
Scott perfected, to catch the spirit of our old minstrelsy. He was born
in 1 728 ; spent the greater part of his life in his College, (Trinity, Oxford ;)
and died in 1790.]

The age of Queen Elizabeth is commonly called the golden age
of English poetry. It certainly may not improperly be styled the
most poetical age of these annals.

Among the great features which strike us in the poetry of this
period, are the predominancy of fable, of fiction, and fancy, and
a predilection for interesting adventures and pathetic events. I
will endeavour to assign and explain the cause of this character-
istic distinction, which may chiefly be referred to the following
principals, sometimes blended, and sometimes operating singly;
the revival and vernacular versions of the classics, the importa-
tion and translation of Italian novels, the visionary reveries or
refinements of false philosophy, a degree of superstition sufficient
for the purpose of poetry, the adoption of the machineries of
romance, and the frequency and the improvements of allegoric
exhibition in the popular spectacles.

When the corruptions and impostures of popery were abolished,
the fashion of cultivating the Greek and Roman learning became
universal : and the literary character was no longer appropriated
to scholars by profession, but assumed by the nobility and gentry.

THOS. WARTON.] POETRY OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 2>Jl

The ecclesiastics had found it their interest to keep the languages
of antiquity to themselves, and men were eager to know what had
been so long injuriously concealed. Truth propagates truth,
and the mantle of mystery was removed not only from religion
but from literature. The laity, who had now been taught to
assert their natural privileges, became impatient of the old mono-
poly of knowledge, and demanded admittance to the usurpations
of the clergy. The general curiosity for new discoveries, height-
ened either by just or imaginary idea of the treasures contained
in the Greek and Roman writers, excited all persons of leisure
and fortune to study the classics. The pedantry of the present
age was the politeness of the last. An accurate comprehension
of the phraseology and peculiarities of the ancient poets, his-
torians, and orators, which yet seldom went further than a kind
of technical erudition, was an indispensable and almost the prin-
cipal object in the circle of a gentleman's education. Every
young lady of fashion was carefully instituted in classical letters ;
and the daughter of a duchess was taught, not only to distil strong
waters, but to construe Greek. Among the learned females of
high distinction, Queen Elizabeth herself was the most con-
spicuous. Roger Ascham her preceptor, speaks with rapture of
her astonishing progress in the Greek nouns ; and declares with
no small degree of triumph, that, during a long residence at
Windsor Castle, she was accustomed to read more Greek in a
day, than "some prebendary of that church did Latin in one
week ; " and although a princess looking out words in a lexicon,
and writing down hard phrases from Plutarch's Lives, may be
thought at present a more incompatible and extraordinary char-
acter, than a cannon of Windsor understanding no Greek and but
little Latin, yet Elizabeth's passion for these acquisitions was
then natural, and resulted from the genius and habitudes of her
age.

The books of antiquity being thus familiarised to the great,
everything was tinctured with ancient history and mythology.
The heathen gods, although discountenanced by the Calvinists,
on a suspicion of their tendency to cherish and revive a spirit of

272 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [THOS. WARTON.

idolatry, came into general vogue. When the queen paraded
through a country town, almost every pageant was a pantheon.
When she paid a visit at the house of any of her nobility, at
entering the hall she was saluted by the Penates, and conducted
to her privy-chamber by Mercury. Even the pastry-cooks were
expert mythologists. At dinner, select transformations of Ovid's
Metamorphoses were exhibited in confectionery ; and the splendid
icing of an immense historic plumcake was embossed with a
delicious basso-relievo of the destruction of Troy. In the after-
noon, when she condescended to walk in the garden, the lake
was covered with Tritons and Nereids ; the pages of the family
were converted into wood-nymphs who peeped from every bower;
and the footmen gambolled over the lawns in the figure of satyrs.
I speak it without designing to insinuate any unfavourable sus-
picions, but it seems difficult to say why Elizabeth's virginity
should have been made the theme of perpetual and excessive
panegyric : nor does it immediately appear that there is less merit
or glory in a married than a maiden queen. Yet, the next morn-
ing, after sleeping in a room hung with a tapestry of the voyage
of Eneas, when her majesty hunted in the park she was met by
Diana, who, pronouncing our royal prude to be the brightest
paragon of unspotted chastity, invited her to groves free from the
intrusions of Actaeon. The truth is, she was so profusely flattered
for this virtue, because it was esteemed the characteristical orna-
ment of the heroines, as fantastic honour was the chief pride of
the champions, of the old barbarous romance. It was in confor-
mity to the sentiments of chivalry, which still continued in vogue,
that she was celebrated for chastity ; the compliment, however,
was paid in a classical allusion.

Queens must be ridiculous when they would appear as women.
The softer attractions of sex vanish on the throne. Elizabeth
sought all occasions of being extolled for her beauty, of which
indeed, in the prime of her youth, she possessed but a small share,
whatever might have been her pretensions to absolute virginity.
Notwithstanding her exaggerated habits of dignity and ceremony,
and a certain affectation of imperial severity, she did not perceive

THOS. WARTON.] POETRY OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 273

this ambition of being complimented for beauty to be an idle and
unpardonable levity, totally inconsistent with her high station and
character. As she conquered all nations with her arms, it matters
not what were the triumphs of her eyes. Of what consequence
was the complexion of the mistress of the world1? Not less vain
of her person than her politics, this stately coquette, the guardian
of the Protestant faith, the terror of the sea, the mediatrix of the
factions of France, and the scourge of Spain, was infinitely mor-
tified if an ambassador, at the first audience, did not tell her
she was the finest woman in Europe. No negotiation succeeded
unless she was addressed as a goddess. Encomiastic harangues
drawn from this topic, even on the supposition of youth and
beauty, were surely superfluous, unsuitable, and unworthy ; and
were offered and received with an equal impropriety. Yet when
she rode through the streets of the city of Norwich, Cupid, at
the command of the mayor and aldermen, advancing from a
group of gods who had left Olympus to grace the procession, gave
her a golden arrow, the most effective weapon of his well-furnished
quiver, which under the influence of such irresistible charms was
sure to wound the most obdurate heart. " A gift," says honest
Holinshed, " which her majesty, now verging to her fiftieth year,
received very thankfully." In one of the fulsome interludes at
court, where she was present, the singing-boys of her chapel
presented the story of the three rival goddesses on Mount Ida,
to which her majesty was ingeniously added as a fourth : arid
Paris was arraigned in form for adjudging the golden apple to
Venus which was due to the queen alone.

This inundation of classical pedantry soon infected our poetry.
Our writers, already trained in the school of fancy, were suddenly
dazzled with these novel imaginations, and the divinities and
heroes of pagan antiquity decorated every composition. The
perpetual allusions to ancient fable were often introduced without
the least regard to propriety. Shakspere's Mrs Page, who is not
intended in any degree to be a learned or an affected lady, laugh-
ing at the cumbersome courtship of her corpulent lover, Falstaff,
says, " I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion."

VOL. III. S

274 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Tnos. WARTON.

This familiarity with the pagan story was not, however, so much
owing to the prevailing study of the original authors, as to the
numerous English versions of them which were consequently
made. The translation of the classics, which now employed
every pen, gave a currency and a celerity to these fancies, and
had the effect of diffusing them among the people. No sooner
were they delivered from the pale of the scholastic languages,
than they acquired a general notoriety. Ovid's Metamorphoses
just translated by Golding, to instance no further, disclosed a new
world of fiction even to the illiterate. As we had now all the
ancient fables in English, learned allusions, whether in a poem or
a pageant, were no longer obscure and unintelligible to common
readers and common spectators. And here we are led to observe
that at this restoration of the classics, we were first struck only
with their fabulous inventions. We did not attend to their regu-
larity of design and justness of sentiment. A rude age, beginning
to read these writers, imitated their extravagances, not their
natural beauties. And these, like other novelties, were pursued
to a blamable excess.

I have given a sketch of the introduction of classical stories, in
the splendid show exhibited at the coronation of Queen Anne
Boleyn. But that is a rare and a premature instance ; and the
pagan fictions are there complicated with the barbarisms of the
Catholic worship, and the doctrines of scholastic theology. Classi-
cal learning was not then so widely spread either by study or trans-
lation, as to bring these learned spectacles into fashion, to frame
them with sufficient skill, and to present them with propriety.

Another capital source of the poetry peculiar to this period,
consisted in the numerous translations of Italian tales into English.
These narratives, not dealing altogether in romantic inventions,
but in real life and manners, and in artful arrangements of
fictitious yet probable events, afforded a new gratification to a
people which yet retained their ancient relish for tale-telling, and
became the fashionable amusement of all who professed to read
for pleasure. They gave rise to innumerable plays and poems,
which would not otherwise have existed ; and turned the thoughts

THOS. WARTON.] POETRY OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 275

of our writers to new inventions of the same kind. Before these
books became common, affecting situations, the combination of
incident, and the pathos of catastrophe, were almost unknown.
Distress, especially that arising from the conflicts of the tender
passion, had not yet been shown in its most interesting forms.
It was hence our poets, particularly the dramatic, borrowed ideas
of a legitimate plot, and the complication of facts necessary to
constitute a story either of the comic or tragic species. In pro-
portion as knowledge increased, genius had wanted subjects and
materials. These species usurped the place of legends and
chronicles. And although the old historical songs of the minstrels
contained much bold adventure, heroic enterprise, and strong
touches of rude delineation, yet they failed in that multiplication
and disposition of circumstances, and in that description of
characters and events approaching nearer to truth and reality,
which were demanded by a more discerning and curious age.
Even the rugged features of the original Gothic romance were
softened by this sort of reading ; and the Italian pastoral, yet
with some mixture of the kind of incidents described in Helio-
dorus's Ethiopic History, now newly translated, was engrafted on
the feudal manners in Sidney's Arcadia.

But the Reformation had not yet destroyed every delusion, nor
disenchanted all the strongholds of superstition. A few dim
characters were yet legible in the mouldering creed of tradition.
Every goblin of ignorance did not vanish at the first glimmerings
of the morning of science. Reason suffered a few demons still
to linger, which she 'chose to retain in her service under the
guidance of poetry. Men believed, or were willing to believe,
that spirits were yet hovering around, who brought with them
airs from heaven, or blasts from hell: that the ghost was duly
released from his prison of torment at the sound of the curfew ;
and that fairies imprinted mysterious circles on the turf by moon-
light. Much of this credulity was even consecrated by the name
of science and profound speculation. Prospero had not yet
broken and buried his staff, nor drowned his book deeper than did
ever plummet sound. It was now that the alchymist, and the

276 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Taos. WARTOH.

judicial astrologer, conducted his occult operations by the potent
intercourse of some preternatural being, who came obsequious to
his call, and was bound to accomplish his severest services, under
certain conditions, and for a limited duration of time. It was
actually one of the pretended feats of these fantastic philosophers,
to evoke the queen of the fairies in the solitude of a gloomy
grove, who, preceded by a sudden rustling of the leaves, appeared
in robes of transcendent lustre. The Shakspere of a more in-
structed and polished age would not have given us a magician
darkening the sun at noon, the sabbath of the witches, and the
caldron of incantation.

Undoubtedly most of these notions were credited and enter-
tained in a much higher degree in the preceding periods. But
the arts of composition had not then made a sufficient progress,
nor would the poets of those periods have managed them with so
much address and judgment. We were now arrived at that point
when the national credulity, chastened by reason, had produced
a sort of civilised superstition, and left a set of traditions, fanciful
enough for poetic decoration, and yet not too violent and
chimerical for common sense. Hobbes, although no friend to
this doctrine, observes happily, " In a good poem both judgment
and fancy are required ; but the fancy must be more eminent,
because they please for the extravagancy, but ought not to dis-
please by indiscretion."

In the meantime the Gothic romance, although somewhat
shook by the classical fictions, arid by the tales of Boccace and
Bandello, still maintained its ground ; and tlie daring machineries
of giants, dragons, and enchanted castles, borrowed from the
magic storehouse of Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso, began to be
employed by the epic muse. The Gothic and pagan fictions were
now frequently blended and incorporated. The Lady of the
Lake floated in the suite of Neptune before Queen Elizabeth at
Kenilworth, and assumes the semblance of a sea-nymph ; and
Hecate, by an easy association, conducts the rites of the weird
sisters in Macbeth.

Allegory had been derived from the religious dramas into our

THOS. WARTON.] POETRY OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 277

civil spectacles. The masques and pageantries of the age of
Elizabeth were not only furnished by the heathen divinities, but
often by the virtues and vices impersonated, significantly decor-
ated, accurately distinguished by their proper types, and repre-
sented by living actors. The ancient symbolical shows of this
sort began now to lose their old barbarism and a mixture of re-
ligion, and to assume a degree of poetical elegance and precision.
Nor was it only in the confirmation of particular figures that much
fancy was shown, but in the contexture of some of the fables or
devices presented by groups of ideal personages. These exhibi-
tions quickened creative invention, and reflected back on poetry
what poetry had given. . From their familiarity and public nature
they formed a national taste for allegory; and the allegorical
poets were now writing to the people. Even romance was turned
into this channel. In the " Faery Queen " allegory is wrought
upon chivalry, and the feats and figments of Arthur's Round
Table are moralised. The virtues of magnificence and chastity
are here personified ; but they are imaged with the forms, and
under the agency, of romantic knights and damsels. What was
an after-thought in Tasso, appears to have been Spenser's pre-
meditated and primary design. In the meantime we must not
confound these moral combatants of the " Faery Queen " with
some of its other embodied abstractions, which are purely and
professedly allegorical.

It may here be added, that only a few critical treatises, and
but one Art of Poetry, were now written. Sentiment and images
were not absolutely determined by the canons of composition,
nor was genius awed by the consciousness of a future and
final arraignment at the tribunal of taste. A certain dignity
of inattention to niceties is now visible in our writers. Without
too closely consulting a criterion of correctness, every man in-
dulged his own capriciousness of invention. The poet's appeal
was chiefly to his own voluntary feelings, his own immediate and
peculiar mode of conception ; and this freedom of thought was
often expressed in an undisguised frankness of diction.

No satires, properly so called, were written till towards the latter

278 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Taos. WARTOW.

end of the queen's reign, and then but a few. Pictures drawn at
large of the vices of the times did not suit readers who loved to
wander in the regions of artificial manners. The muse, like the
people, was too solemn and reserved, too ceremonious and
pedantic, to stoop to common life. Satire is the poetry of a
nation highly polished.

The importance of the female character was not yet acknow-
ledged, nor were women admitted into the general commerce of
society. The effect of that intercourse had not imparted a comic
air to poetry, nor softened the severer tone of our versification
with the levities of gallantry and the familiarities of compliment,
sometimes, perhaps, operating on serious subjects, and imper-
ceptibly spreading themselves in the general habits of style and
thought. I do. not mean to insinuate that our poetry has suffered
from the great change of manners which this assumption of the
gentler sex, or rather the improved state of female education, has
produced, by giving elegance and variety to life, by enlarging the
sphere of conversation, and by multiplying the topics and enrich-
ing the stores of wit and humour ; but I am marking the pecu-
liarities of composition, and my meaning was to suggest that the
absence of so important a circumstance from the modes and con-
stitution of ancient life must have influenced the contemporary
poetry.

All or most of these circumstances contributed to give a de-
scriptive, a picturesque, and a figurative cast to the poetical
language. This effect appears even in the prose compositions
of the reign of Elizabeth. In the subsequent age prose became
the language of poetry.

In the meantime general knowledge was increasing with a
wide diffusion and a hasty rapidity. Books began to be multi-
plied, and a variety of the most useful and rational topics had
been discussed in our own language. But science had not made
too great advances. On the whole we were now arrived at
that period, propitious to the operations of original and true
poetry, when the coyness of fancy was not always proof against
the approaches of reason ; when genius was rather directed

ANONYMOUS.] SHIPWRECK OF THE MKDUSE FRENCH FRIGATE. 2J()

than governed by judgment ; and when taste and learning had
so far only disciplined imagination, as to suffer its excesses to
pass without censure or control for the sake of the beauties to
which they were allied.

228.-S{jrjpforW{i

Jf «t4 Jfripte.

(From the Quarterly Rcvieiv.)

THE French possessions on the west coast of Africa having been
restored at the general peace, an expedition, consisting of a frigate
and three other vessels, was sent in the month of June, 1816, to
take possession of them.

Owing to a very relaxed state of discipline, and an ignorance
of the common principles of navigation which would have dis-
graced a private merchant ship, .this frigate, the Meduse, was
suffered to run aground on the bank of Arguin. It was soon dis-
covered that all hopes of getting her off. must be abandoned, and
that nothing remained but to concert measures for the escape of
the passengers and crew. Some biscuit, wine, and fresh water,

280 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [ANONYMOUS.

were accordingly got up and prepared for putting into the boats
and upon a raft which had been hastily constructed ; but, in the
tumult of abandoning the wreck, it happened that the raft, which
was destined to carry the greatest number of people, had the least
share of the provisions : of wine, indeed, it had more than enough,
but not a single barrel of biscuit.

There were five boats. The military had, in the first instance,
been placed upon the raft. The number embarked on this fatal
machine was not less than one hundred and fifty, making, with
those in the boats, a total of three hundred and ninety-seven.

The boats pushed off in a line, towing the raft, and assuring the
people on board that they would conduct them safely to land.
They had not proceeded, however, above two leagues from the
wreck, when they, one by one, cast off the tow-lines. It was
afterwards pretended that they broke. Had this even been true,
the boats might at any time have rejoined the raft, instead of
which they all abandoned it to its fate, every one striving to make
off with all possible speed.

At this time the raft had sunk below the surface to the depth
of three feet and a half, and the people were so squeezed one
against another that it was found impossible to move ; fore and
aft they were up to the middle in water. In such a deplorable
situation, it was with difficulty they could persuade themselves
that they had been abandoned ; nor would they believe it until
the whole of the boats had disappeared from their sight. They
now began to consider themselves as deliberately sacrificed, and
swore to be revenged of their unfeeling companions if ever they
gained the shore. The consternation soon became extreme.
Everything that was horrible took possession of their imagina-
tions; all perceived their destruction to be at hand, and an-
nounced by their wailings the dismal thoughts by which they
were distracted. The officers, with great difficulty, and by put-
ting on a show of confidence, succeeded at length in restoring
them to a certain degree of tranquillity, but were themselves over-
come with alarm on finding that there was neither chart, nor com-
pass, nor anchor, on the raft. One of the men belonging to M.

ANONYMOUS.] SHIPWRECK OF THE MEDUSE FRENCH FRIGATE. 281

Corre'ard, geographical engineer, had fortunately preserved a small
pocket compass ; and this little instrument inspired them with so
much confidence, that they conceived their safety to depend on
it. But this treasure, above all price, was speedily snatched from
them for ever ; it fell from the man's hand, and disappeared be-
tween the openings of the raft

None of the party had taken any food before they left the
ship; and hunger beginning to oppress them, they mixed the
biscuit, of which they had about five-and- twenty pounds on
board, with wine, and distributed it in small portions to each
man. They succeeded in erecting a kind of mast, and hoisting
one of the royals that had belonged to the frigate.

Night at length came on, the wind freshened, and the sea
began to swell. The only consolation now was the belief that
they should discover the boats the following morning. About
midnight the weather became very stormy, and the waves broke
over them in every direction. In the morning the wind abated,
and the sea subsided a little ; but a dreadful spectacle presented
itself. Ten or twelve of the unhappy men, having their lower
extremities jammed between the spars of the raft, unable to ex-
tricate themselves, had perished in that situation ; several others
had been swept off by the violence of the waves. In calling over
the list, it was found that twenty had disappeared.

All this, however, was nothing to the dreadful scene which took
place the following night. The day had been beautiful, and no
one seemed to doubt that the boats would appear in the course of
it to relieve them from their perilous state ; but the evening ap-
proached, and none were seen. From that moment a spirit of
sedition spread from man to man, and manifested itself by the
most furious shouts. Night came on ; the heavens were obscured
by thick clouds ; the wind rose, and with it the sea ; the waves
broke over them every moment ; numbers were swept away, par-
ticularly near the extremities of the raft ; and the crowding to-
wards the centre of it was so great that several poor wretches
were smothered by the pressure of their comrades, who were
unable to keep on their legs.

282 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

Firmly persuaded that they were on the point of being swallowed
up, both soldiers and sailors resolved to soothe their last moments
by drinking till they lost their reason ! They bored a hole in the
head of a large cask, from which they continued to swill till the
salt water, mixing with the wine, rendered it no longer potable.
Excited by the fumes, acting on empty stomachs and heads
already disordered by danger, they now became deaf to the voice
of reason, boldly declared their intention to murder their officers,
and then cut the ropes which bound the raft together. One of
them, seizing an axe, actually began the dreadful work. This
was the signal for revolt. The officers rushed forward to quell
the tumult, and the man with the hatchet was the first that fell ;
the stroke of a sabre terminated his existence.

The passengers joined the officers, but the mutineers were still
the greater number. Luckily they were but badly armed, or the
few bayonets and sabres of the opposite party could not have kept
them at bay. One fellow was detected secretly cutting the ropes,
and immediately flung overboard ; others destroyed the shrouds
and halyards ; and the mast, deprived of support, fell on a captain
of infantry and broke his thigh. He was instantly seized by the
soldiers and thrown into the sea, but was saved by the opposite
party. A furious charge was now made upon the mutineers,
many of whom were cut down. At length this fit of desperation
subsided into egregious cowardice ; they cried out for mercy, and
asked forgiveness on their knees. It was now midnight, and
order appeared to be restored ; but after an hour of deceitful
tranquillity, the insurrection burst forth anew. The mutineers ran
upon the officers like desperate men, each having a knife or a
sabre in his hand ; and such was the fury of the assailants that
they tore their flesh, and even their clothes, with their teeth.
There was no time for hesitation ; a general slaughter took place,
and the raft was strewed with dead bodies.

On the return of day it was found that, in the course of the
preceding night of horror, sixty-five of the mutineers had perished,
and two of the small party attached to the officers. One cask
of wine only remained. Before the allowance was served out,

ANONYMOUS.] SHIPWRECK OF THE MEDUSE FRENCH FRIGATE. 283

they contrived to get up their mast afresh : but having no com-
pass, and not knowing how to direct their course, they let the
raft drive before the wind, apparently indifferent whither they
went. Enfeebled with hunger, they now tried to catch fish, but
could not succeed, and abandoned the attempt. At length,
what is horrible to relate, the unhappy men, whom death had
spared in the course of the night, fell upon the carcases of the
dead and began to devour them. Some tried to eat their sword
belts and cartridge boxes : others devoured their linen, and others
the leather of their hats ; but all these expedients, and others of
a still more loathsome nature, were of no avail.

A third night of horror now approached ; but it proved to be
a night of tranquillity, disturbed only by the piercing cries of those
whom hunger and thirst devoured. In the morning a shoal of
flying fish, in passing the raft, left nearly three hundred entangled
between the spars. By means of a little gunpowder and linen,
and by erecting an empty cask, they contrived to make a fire ;
and mixing with the fish the flesh of a deceased comrade, they
all partook of a meal, which, by this means, was rendered less re-
volting.

The fourth night was marked by another massacre. Their
numbers were at length reduced to twenty-eight, fifteen of whom
only appeared to be able to exist for a few days ; the other
thirteen were so reduced that they had nearly lost all sense of
existence. As their case was hopeless, and as, while they lived,
they would consume a part of the little that was left, a council
was held, and, after a deliberation at which the most horrible
despair is said to have presided, it was decided to throw them
overboard. " Three sailors and a soldier undertook the execu-
tion of this cruel sentence. We turned away our eyes, and shed
tears of blood on the fate of these unfortunate men ; but this
painful sacrifice saved the fifteen who remained, and who, after
this dreadful catastrophe, had six days of suffering to undergo be-
fore they were relieved from their dismal situation." At the end
of this period a small vessel was descried at a distance ; she
proved to be the Argus brig, which had been despatched from

284 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Goowm.

Senegal to look out for them. All hearts on board were melted
with pity at their deplorable condition. "Let any one," say
our unfortunate narrators, " figure to himself fifteen unhappy
creatures almost naked, their bodies shrivelled by the rays of the
sun, ten of them scarcely able to move : our limbs stripped of the
skin ; a total change in all our features ; our eyes hollow, and
almost savage ; our long beards, which gave us an air almost
hideous ; we were in fact but the shadows of ourselves."

Such is the history of these unfortunate men ! Of the hundred
and fifty embarked on the raft, fifteen only were received on board
the brig ; and of these six died shortly after their arrival at St
Louis, and the remaining nine, covered with cicatrices, and ex-
hausted by the suffering to which they were so long exposed, are
stated to have been entirely altered in appearance and constitu-
tion. We are shocked to add, such were the neglect and in-
difference of their shipmates, who had arrived there in safety,
that had it not been for the humane attention of Major Peddy
and Captain Campbell, they would, in all probability, have ex-
perienced the fate of their unfortunate companions.

Of the boats, two only (those in which the governor and the
captain of the frigate had embarked) arrived at Senegal ; the other
four made the shore in different places, and landed their people.
They suffered extremely from hunger and thirst, and the effects
of a burning sun reflected from a surface of naked sand. With the
exception, however, of two or three, they all reached Senegal.

The preceding narrative is perfectly well authenticated, being
compiled from an account written by two of the unhappy sur-
vivors.

229.— T0ntr0tt in &mu 0f

GODWIN.

[WILLIAM GODWIN, whose political writings are forgotten, but whose novel
of *' Caleb Williams " will endure with our language, was born in 1756, and
died in 1 836. During this long life he was principally engaged in literary pur-

GODWIN.] LONDON IN THE TIME OF CHAUCER. 285

suits. He married, in 1797, the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft, who died
the same year, leaving him one daughter, who afterwards became Mis Shelley.
The following extract is from his " Life of Geoffrey Chaucer.1']

The seat of Chaucer's nativity was the city of London. This
is completely ascertained by his own words in the " Testament of
Love/' book i., section 5. "Also the citye of London, that is
to me so dere and swete, in which I was forth growen ; and
more kindely love have I to that place than to any other in
yerth, as every kindely creture hath full appetite to that place of
his kindely engendrure, and to wilne reste and pece in that stede
to abide."

This passage contains nearly all the information we possess
relative to the commencement of our poet's life. But it is fraught
with various inferences. It is peremptory as to the place of his
birth, or, as he calls it, of his " kindely engendrure," (that is, his
geniture according to kind, or the course of nature.) It renders
it extremely probable that London was the abode of his tender
years, and the scene of his first education ; so much is not
unlikely to be implied in his giving it the appellation of the place
in which he was " forth growen." Lastly, as he is in this passage
assigning a reason why many years after (in the fifty-sixth year
of his age) he interested himself in the welfare, and took a part
in the dissensions, of the metropolis, it may with some plausi-
bility be inferred that his father was a merchant, and that he was
himself by the circumstances of his birth entitled to the privileges
of a citizen.

He who loves to follow the poet through the various scenes
from which his mind receives its first impressions, will be eager
in this place to recollect what sort of a city London was in the
beginning of the fourteenth century ; how far it resembled,
and in what respects it differed from, the present metropolis of
England.

I am afraid little doubt can be entertained that, if we were to
judge of it from the first impression it was likely to make upon a
stranger, it would not have been found much more advantageous

286 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Gocwm.

than that of Paris at the same era, which Petrarca describes (A.D.
1333) as "the most dirty and ill-smelling town he had ever
visited ; Avignon only excepted."

Of this, however, we may be sure, that the impression which
London produced on the mind of Chaucer, was very different
from that of Paris on the mind of Petrarca. Petrarca viewed the
cities of France with the prepossessions of an Italian, and the
haughtiness of a pedant, proud that he owed his birth to the
country of Cicero and Virgil, of Brutus and Cato, and looking on
the rest of the world as a people of barbarians. Chaucer had
none of these prejudices : he felt the great dictates of nature, and
cherished them with the fondness of attachment. London, with
its narrow lanes, and its dirty ways, its streets encumbered with
commerce, and its people vexed with the cares of gain, was in
his eyes beautiful, lovely, and engaging. "More kindly love
and fuller appetite " had he " to that place than to any other in
yerth."

But, though London had at this time very little to boast on the
score of its general architecture, it was already the scene of con-
siderable population and wealth. The topographer who would
attain to an exact idea of any of our principal towns at a remote
period of their history, must go back in the first place to the con-
sideration of what they were in the time of the Roman empire.
For near four centuries, from the year of Christ 50, to the year
450, Britain was a flourishing and powerful colony to the great
mistress of the world. The Romans, in proportion as they sub-
dued her barbarous inhabitants, founded cities, erected theatres,
established universities, constructed highways, and adorned the
island with magnificent works of art, as well as planted within its
circuit the seeds of discipline, science, and literature. England
was then a civilised and a magnificent scene, and would have
presented as many objects worthy of the curiosity of a traveller
of taste, as at any period of its subsequent history. London was
founded by the Romans, and enclosed with a wall, nearly equal in
extent to the present boundaries of the city of London strictly so
called. Its limits were from about the foot of Blackfriars Bridge,

GODWIN.] LONDON IN THE TIME OF CHAUCER. 2S7

west, to the Tower Stairs, east : on the north it extended to the
street now denominated London Wall, and on the south it had
another wall which skirted the whole length of the city along the
shores of the river.

In that melancholy period when the Roman empire in the
west became universally a prey to the hordes of ferocious bar-
barians, England fell to the lot of certain piratical tribes from the
north of Germany, since known by the general denomination of
Anglo-Saxons. These invaders were successful in exterminating
from among us all vestiges of literature and Roman civilisation.
The Christian religion itself sunk under their hostility. The in-
stitutions of the ancient Germans and the mythology of Woden
became universal. At the time whe the monk, St Augustine,
arrived in this country for the pious purpose of converting its
usurpers, A.D. 596, it has been supposed that there was not a
book to be found through the whole extent of the island. From
this time, however, there was a period of comparative illumination.
The Saxons had poetry, and the missionaries from Rome brought
with them such literature as Europe then had to boast. We had
our Bede, our Alcuin, and our Alfred. This infancy of improve-
ment was nearly crushed by the Danes ; the inveterate foes of
monasteries and learning, who were in the tenth century what the
Saxons had already been in the sixth. England presents little to
soothe the eye of the lover of civilisation, from the retreat of the
Romans to the epoch of the Norman Conquest, when a race of
warriors educated in a happier scene, and a succession of kings
nearly all of distinguished ability brought back to us the abode
of the Muses and the arts of cultivated life.

During this interval, London, the heart of England, had expe-
rienced a common fate with the rest of its members. The walls,
indeed, in considerable part remained, but the houses tumbled
into ruin, and the tall grass waved in the streets : not that it was
ever wholly unpeopled, but that it was an inconsiderable place, in
comparison of the dimensions which the Romans had marked out
for it. A short time, however, previously to the Conquest, it had
a bridge of wood erected over the Thames : a work which would

288 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Gouwm.

scarcely have been constructed in those rude times, if it had not
even then been a flourishing city.

The Tower of London was constructed for the purpose of sub-
jugation by William the Conqueror. William Rufus, who had a
strong passion for magnificence, enlarged this edifice, rebuilt
London Bridge on a more commodious plan, and laid the foun-
dation of Westminster Hall. London Bridge was first built of
stone under Henry the Second. Edward the Confessor, who, a
short time before the Conquest, imported some of the Norman
arts into Britain, first gave existence to the City of Westminster,
having built there the old palace, and the venerable structure
known by the name of Westminster Abbey.

London, also, in the time of Chaucer, contained several royal
palaces. The Tower was long a principal residence of our kings ;
beside which they had a smaller mansion very near it, called the
Royal ; a second, south of St Paul's, called the Wardrobe ; and
a third, nearly on the site of the present Bridewell. This city was
besides adorned with various monasteries, the chief of which were
the Temple, which had lately been the residence of the Knights
Templars, but was now in the occupation of the students-at-
law; and the monastery of St John, belonging to the Knights
Hospitallers of St John of Jerusalem, a gate of which is re-
maining to this day. It had many other buildings, which, rela-
tively to the times we are considering, might be styled magnifi-
cent.

The population of London is stated by Peter of Blois, a man
of talents, and for the time in which he lived an elegant writer of
Latin, at forty thousand persons in the reign of King Stephen.
In the reign of Edward the First, and the year 1285, the twenty-
four wards of London are enumerated in a charter of that
monarch nearly as at present, so that London must then have
occupied the same space of ground as the city of London now
occupies. We must not, however, suppose that this space was
covered with inhabitants : Cheapside, for example, we are told,
was " no manner of street, a fair large place, commonly called
Crown Field ; " and tournaments were held there in the reign of

GODWIN.] LONDON IN THE TIME OF CHAUCER. 289

Edward III. Among the environs of London we find enume-
rated the villages of Strand, Charing, and Holborn.

Respecting the population of London in the year 1349, when
Chaucer was already twenty-one years of age, we have a ground
of calculation of singular authenticity. That was a period when
Europe, and nearly the whole known world, was afflicted with a
pestilence, more terrible than perhaps any other in the- records of
mankind. In England, our old historians assure us that scarcely
the tenth person was left alive. Sir Walter Manny, one of the
most distinguished warriors and courtiers of Edward III., pur-
chased at this time a piece of ground, now the site of the Charter
House, for the interment of such persons as the churches and
churchyards of London might not suffice to bury ; and it appears
from an inscription on a stone cross erected on the spot, which
remained in the time of these historians, that more than fifty
thousand persons were buried in this ground in the space of one
year. Maitland, in his History of London, very naturally ob-
serves, that this cannot be supposed to exceed the amount of one-
half of the persons who died in that period. One hundred thou-
sand persons, therefore, may safely be taken to be a part, what-
ever part we may choose to imagine it, of the population of
London at that period.

Nor did the wealth and commerce of London by any means
fail of their due proportion to the number of its inhabitants. Of
this many striking examples may be produced. The father of
Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, and lord chancellor to King
Richard the Second, was a merchant ; and the first cause of the
subsequent eminence of the son was the loans of money ad-
vanced at several times by the father to Edward III. to assist him
in the prosecution of his wars in France.

In the year next after the battle of Poitiers, Henry Picard,
vintner, or wine-merchant, mayor of London, gave a sumptuous
entertainment to four kings, Edward, King of England, John,
King of France, David, King of Scots, and the King of Cyprus.
The circumstances of the entertainment are thus characteristically
described by the old historian : — " After dinner, the sayd Henry

VOL. III. T

2QO HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Gonwrw.

Picard kept his hall against all commers whatsoever, that were
willing to play at dice and hazard. In like manner, the Ladie
Margaret, his wife, did also keepe her chamber to the same in-
tent. The King of Cipres, playing with Henry Picard in his
hall, did winne of him fiftie markes ; but Henry, being very
skilful in that arte, altering his hand, did after winne, of the same
king, the same fiftie markes and fiftie markes more, which, when
the same king began to take in ill parte, although hee dissembled
the same, Henry sayd unto him, My Lord and King, be not
agreeved, I covet not your gold but your play ; for I have not
bidde you hither that I might greeve you, but that amongst other
things I might trie your play ; and gave him his money again,
plentifully bestowing of his owne amongst the retinue ; besides,
hee gave many rich giftes to the king, and other nobles and
knights, which dined with him."

In the second year of King Richard the Second, John Mercer,
a Scotchman, having fitted out a piratical fleet against the English,
John Philpot, a citizen of London, hired, with his own money,
to the number of a thousand soldiers; and, putting to sea, in
a short time took the said John Mercer, with all his prizes, and
fifteen valuable Spanish ships which he had drawn to his assist-
ance.

In the same reign, Sir Richard Whittington, mayor of London,
of whom so many traditional and improbable stories are told,
rebuilt at his own expense the jail of Newgate, the library of the
Grey Friars, the hospital of Little St Bartholomew's, and a college
near St Paul's, which was called after his own, name.

The story of Sir William Walworth's contention with Wat
Tyler, and the gallantry and high spirit he displayed on the occa-
sion, are too well known to need to be recited here. The increase
of the towns and the progress of commerce were the immediate
causes of that great revolution in the thirteenth century, the rise
of the Commons ; and we shall be at a loss to understand many
circumstances in the history of this period, if we do not distinctly
recollect that the wealthy merchants of England and the neigh-
bouring countries were now enabled to enter into a sort of rival-

SWIFT.] GULLIVER, AND THE KING OF BROBDINGNAG. 29 1

ship with the ancient barons, which these latter wished, perhaps,
but were not able, to despise. The citizens had not yet learned
the sordid habits of later times, and appear to have copied with
success the purest models that were afforded them by their con-
temporaries. The father of Chaucer is conjectured, by one of
his editors, to have been, like Henry Picard, a vintner, or merchant
of the vintry. Such, then, were the scenes which our poet first
beheld, and the description of persons with whom his infant years
were connected.

230. — (gullite, anir % flmg 0f

SWIFT.

THE king, who, as I before observed, was a prince of excellent
understanding, would frequently order that I should be brought
in my box, and set upon the table in his closet : he would then
command me to bring one of my chairs out of the box, and sit
down within three yards' distance upon the top of the cabinet,
which brought me almost to a level with his face. In this manner
I had several conversations with him. I one day took the free-
dom to tell his majesty, that the contempt he discovered towards
Europe, and the rest of the world, did not seem answerable to
those excellent qualities of mind that he was master of; that
reason did not extend itself with the bulk of the body : on the
contrary, we observed in our country, that the tallest persons were
usually the least provided with it; that, among other animals,
bees and ants had the reputation of more industry, art, and
sagacity, than many of the larger kinds ; and that, as inconsider-
able as he took me to be, I hoped I might live to do his majesty
some signal service. The king heard me with attention, and be-
gan to conceive a much better opinion of me than he ever had
before. He desired I would give him as exact an account of the
government of England as I possibly could ; because, as fond as
princes commonly are of their own customs, (for so he conjectured

2Q2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SWIFT.

of other monarchs by ray former discourses,) he should be glad
to hear of anything that might deserve imitation.

Imagine with thyself, courteous reader, how often I then wished
for the tongue of Demosthenes or Cicero, that might have enabled
me to celebrate the praises of my own dear native country, in a
style equal to its merits amd felicity.

I began my discourse by informing his majesty, that our
dominions consisted of two islands, which composed three
mighty kingdoms, under one sovereign, besides our plantations
in America. I dwelt long upon the fertility of our soil, and the
temperature of our climate. I then spoke at large upon the con-
stitution of an English parliament ; partly made up of an illustri-
ous body called the House of Peers; persons of the noblest
blood, and of the most ancient and ample patrimonies. I de-
scribed that extraordinary care always taken of their education
in arts and arms, to qualify them for being counsellors both to the
king and kingdom ; to have a share in the legislature ; to be
members of the highest court of judicature, whence there can be
no appeal ; and to be champions always ready for the defence of
their prince and country, by their valour, conduct, and fidelity.
That these were the ornament and bulwark of the kingdom,
worthy followers of their most renowned ancestors, whose honour
had been the reward of their virtue, from which their posterity
were never once known to degenerate. To these were joined
several holy persons, as part of that assembly, under the title
of bishops, whose peculiar business it was to take care of religion,
and of those who instruct the people therein. These were searched
and sought out through the whole nation, by the prince and his
wisest counsellors, among such of the priesthood as were most
deservedly distinguished by the sanctity of their lives, and the
depth of their erudition ; who were indeed the spiritual fathers of
the clergy and the people.

That the other part of the parliament consisted of an assembly
called the House of Commons, who were all principal gentlemen
freely picked and culled out by the people themselves, for theii
great abilities and love of their country, to represent the wisdom

SWIFT.] GULLIVER, AND THE KING OF BROBDINGNAG. 293

of the whole nation. And that these two bodies made up the
most august assembly in Europe , to whom, in conjunction with
the prince, the whole legislature is committed.

I then descended to the courts of justice ; over which the
judges, those venerable sages and interpreters of the law, presided,
for determining the disputed rights and properties of men, as well
as for the punishment of vice, and protection of innocence. I
mentioned the prudent management of our treasury ; the valour
and achievements of our forces, by sea and land. I computed
the number of our people, by reckoning how many millions there
might be of each religious sect, or political party, among us. I
did not omit even our sports and pastimes, or any other par-
ticular which I thought might redound to the honour of my
country. And I finished all with a brief historical account of
affairs and events in England for about a hundred years past.

This conversation was not ended under five audiences, each
of several hours ; and the king heard the whole with great
attention, frequently taking notes of what I spoke, as well as
memorandums of what questions he intended to ask me.

When I had put an end to these long discourses, his majesty,
in a sixth audience, consulted his notes, proposed many doubts,
queries, and objections, upon every article. He asked what
methods were used to cultivate the minds and bodies of our
young nobility, and in what kind of business they commonly
spent the first and teachable parts of their lives 1 What course
was taken to supply that assembly when any noble family became
extinct ? What qualifications are necessary in those who are to
be created new lords : whether the humour of the prince, a sum
of money to a court lady, or a design of strengthening a party
opposite to the public interests, ever happened to be the motives
in those advancements 1 What share of knowledge these lords
had in the laws of their country, and how they came by it, so as
to enable them to decide the properties of their fellow-subjects in
the last resort 1 Whether they were always so free from avarice,
partialities, or want, that a bribe, or some other sinister view
could have no place among them ? Whether those holy lords I

294 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SwiFT.

spoke of were always promoted to that rank on account of
their knowledge in religious matters, and the sanctity of their
lives ; had never been compilers with the times, while they were
common priests ; or slavish prostitute chaplains to some noble-
man, whose opinions they continued servilely to follow, after
they were admitted into that assembly 1

He then desired to know, What arts were practised in electing
those whom I called commoners : whether a stranger, with a
stong purse, might not influence the vulgar voters, to choose
them before their own landlord, or the most considerable gentle-
man in the neighbourhood 1 How it came to pass that people
were so violently bent upon getting into this assembly, which I
allowed to be a great trouble and expense, often to the ruin of
their families, without any salary or pension ; because this ap-
peared such an exalted strain of virtue and public spirit, that his
majesty seemed to doubt that it might possibly not be always
sincere? And he desired to know, Whether such zealous gen-
tlemen could have any views of refunding themselves for the
charges and trouble they were at by sacrificing the public good
to the designs of a weak and vicious prince, in conjunction with
a corrupted ministry? He multiplied his questions, and sifted
me thoroughly upon every part of this head, proposing number-
less inquiries and objections which I think it not prudent or
convenient to repeat.

Upon what I said in relation to our courts of justice, his
majesty desired to be satisfied in several points ; and this I was
the better able to do, having been formerly almost ruined by a
long suit in Chancery, which was decreed for me with costs. He
asked, What time was usually spent in determining between right
and wrong, and what degree of expense ? Whether advocates
and orators had liberty to plead in causes manifestly known to be
unjust, vexatious, or oppressive ? Whether party, in religion or
politics, were observed to be of any weight in the scale of
justice ? Whether those pleading orators were persons educated
in the general knowledge of equity, or only in provincial,
national, and other local customs? Whether they or their

SWIFT.] GULLIVER, AND THE KING OF BROBDINGNAG. 295

judges had any part in penning those laws which they assumed
the liberty of interpreting and glossing upon at their pleasure ]
Whether they had ever, at different times, pleaded for and
against the same cause, and cited precedents to prove contrary
opinions? Whether they were a rich or a poor corporation?
Whether they received any pecuniary reward for pleading or
delivering their opinions ? And particularly, Whether they were
ever admitted as members in the lower senate ?

He fell next upon the management of our treasury ; and said,
he thought my memory had failed me because I computed our
taxes at about five or six millions a year, and when I came to
mention the issues, he found they sometimes amounted to more
than double ; for the notes he had taken were very particular in
this point, because he hoped, as he told me, that the knowledge
of our conduct might be useful to him, and he could not be de-
ceived in his calculations. But, if what I told him were true, he
was still at a loss how a kingdom could run out of its estate, like
a private person. He asked me, Who were our creditors, and
where we found money to pay them ? He wondered to hear me
talk of such chargeable and expensive wars ; that certainly we
must be a quarrelsome people, or live among very bad neigh-
bours, and that our generals must needs be richer than our kings.
He asked, What business we had out of our own islands, unless
upon the score of trade, or treaty, or to defend the coasts with
our fleet ? Above all, he was amazed to hear me talk of a mer-
cenary standing army, in the midst of peace, and among a free
people. He said, if we were governed by our own consent in
the persons of our representatives, he could not imagine of whom
we were afraid, or against whom we were to fight ; and would
hear my opinion, whether a private man's house might not better
be defended by himself, his children, and family, than by half a
dozen rascals, picked up at a venture in the streets for some
small wages, who might get a hundred times more by cutting
their throats ?

He laughed at my odd kind of arithmetic, as he was pleased to
call it, in reckoning the numbers of our people by a computation

296 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SWIFT.

drawn from the several sects among us in religion and politics.
He said, He knew no reason why those who entertain opinions
prejudicial to the public should be obliged to change, or should
not be obliged to conceal them. And as it was tyranny in any
government to require the first, so it was weakness not to enforce
the second ; for a man may be allowed to keep poisons in his
closet, but not to send them about for cordials.

He observed, That among the diversions of our nobility and
gentry, I had mentioned gaming ; he desired to know at what
age this entertainment was usually taken up, and when it was laid
down ; how much of their time it employed ; whether it ever went
so high as to affect their fortunes ; whether mean, vicious people,
by their dexterity in that art, might not arrive at great riches,
and. sometimes keep our very nobles in dependence, as well as
habituate them to vile companions ; wholly take them from the
improvement of their minds, and force them, by the losses they
receive, to learn and practise that infamous dexterity upon others.

He was perfectly astonished with the historical account I gave
him of our affairs during the last century ; protesting it was only
a heap of conspiracies, rebellions, murders, massacres, revolutions,
banishments, the very worst effects that avarice, faction, hypocrisy,
perfidiousness, cruelty, rage, madness, hatred, envy, lust, malice,
and ambition could produce.

His majesty, in another audience, was at the pains to recapitu-
late the sum of all I had spoken ; compared the questions he
made with the answers I had given ; then, taking me into his
hands, and stroking me gently, delivered himself in these words,
which I shall never forget, nor the manner he spoke them in:
My little friend Grildrig, you have made a most admirable pane-
gyric upon your country ; you have clearly proved that ignorance,
idleness, and vice are the proper ingredients for qualifying a legis-
lator ; that laws are best explained, interpreted, and applied by
those whose interests and abilities lie in perverting, confounding,
and eluding them. I observe among you some lines of an insti-
tution, which, in its original, might have been tolerable, but these
half erased, and the rest wholly blurred and blotted by corrup-

PETRARCH.] GOOD AND BAD FORTUNE. 2Q7

tions. It does not appear, from all you have said, how any one
perfection is required toward the procurement of any one station
among you ; much less, that men are ennobled on account of
their virtue ; that priests are advanced for their piety or learning ;
soldiers for their conduct or valour ; judges for their integrity ;
senators for the love of their country; or counsellors for their
wisdom. As for yourself, continued the king, who have spent the
greatest part of your life in travelling, I am well disposed to hope
you may hitherto have escaped many vices of your country. But,
by what I have gathered from your own relation, and the answers I
have with much pains wringed and extorted from you, I cannot
but conclude the bulk of your natives to be the most pernicious
race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon
the surface of the earth.

PETRARCH.

[FRANCESCO PETRARCA is one of the greatest names of modern Europe.
" In an age

Of savage warfare and blind bigotiy,

He cultured all that could refine, exalt ;

Leading to better things."

So says justly the poet of "Italy." The character of Petrarch's poetry was
mainly determined by his passion for Laura — a romantic history not to be told
in a paragraph. His eminent services to mankind, as one of the restorers of
learning, exhibit the union, which pertains to the highest intellects alone, of
the imaginative with the practical. The following passage is from the dedi-
cation to his friend Azzo da Correggio, of his " Treatise on the Remedies of
Good and Bad Fortune," as translated in Mrs Dobson's " Life of Petrarch."]

When I consider the instability of human affairs, and the varia-
tions of fortune, I find nothing more uncertain or restless than the
life of man. Nature has given to animals an excellent remedy
under disasters, which is the ignorance of them. We seem better
treated in intelligence, foresight, and memory. No doubt these

298 HALF-HOURS WITH THE PEST AUTHORS. [PETRARCH.

are admirable presents ; but they often annoy more than they
assist us. A prey to unuseful or distressing cares, we are tor-
mented by the present, the past, and the future ; and, as if we
feared we should not be miserable enough, we join to the evil we
suffer the remembrance of a former distress ; and the apprehen-
sion of some future calamity. This is the Cerberus with three
heads we combat without ceasing. Our life might be gay and
happy if we would ; but we eagerly seek subjects of affliction to
render it irksome and melancholy. We pass the first years of
this life in the shades of ignorance, the succeeding ones in pain
and labour, the latter part in grief and remorse, and the whole in
error : nor do we suffer ourselves to possess one bright day with-
out a cloud.

Let us examine this matter with sincerity, and we shall agree
that our distresses chiefly arise from ourselves. It is virtue alone
which can render us superior to Fortune ; we quit her standard,
and the combat is no longer equal. Fortune mocks us; she
turns us on her wheel : she raises and abases us at her pleasure,
but her power is founded on our weakness. This is an old-rooted
evil, but it is not incurable : there is nothing a firm and elevated
mind cannot accomplish. The discourse of the wise and the
study of good books are the best remedies I know of; but to
these we must join the consent of the soul, without which the best
advice will be useless. What gratitude do we not owe to those
great men who, though dead many ages before us, live with us
by their works, discourse with us, are our masters and guides,
and serve us as pilots in the navigation of life, where our vessel
is agitated without ceasing by the storms of our passions ! It is
here that true philosophy brings us to a safe port, by a sure and
easy passage ; not like that of the schools, which, raising us on its
airy and deceitful wings, and causing us to hover on the clouds
of frivolous dispute, lets us fall without any light or instruction in
the same place where she took us up.

Dear friend, I do not attempt to exhort you to the study I judge
so important. Nature has given you a taste for all knowledge,
but Fortune has denied you the leisure to acquire it : yet, when-

PETRARCH.] GOOD AND BAD FORTUNE. 299

ever you could steal a moment from public affairs, you sought the
conversation of wise men ; and I have remarked, that your memory
often served you instead of books. It is. therefore, unnecessary
to invite you to do what you have always done ; but, as we can-
not retain all we hear or read, it may be useful to furnish your
mind with some maxims that may best serve to arm you against
the assaults of misfortune. The vulgar, and even philosophers,
have decided, that adverse fortune was most difficult to sustain.
For my own part I am of a different opinion, and believe it more
easy to support adversity than prosperity; and that fortune is
more treacherous and dangerous when she caresses than when
she dismays. Experience has taught me this, not books or argu-
ments. I have seen many persons sustain great losses, poverty,
exile, tortures, death, and even disorders that were worse than
death, with courage ; but I have seen none whose heads have not
been turned by power, riches, and honours. How often have we
beheld those overthrown by good fortune, who could never be
shaken by bad ! This made me wish to learn how to support a great
fortune. You know the short time this work has taken. I have
been less attentive to what might shine than to what might be useful
on this subject. Truth and virtue are the wealth of all men ; and
shall I not discourse on these with my dear Azon 1 I would pre-
pare for you, as in a little portable box, a friendly antidote against
the poison of good and bad fortune. The one requires a rein to
repress the sallies of a transported soul , the other a consolation
to fortify the overwhelmed and afflicted spirit.

Nature gave you, my friend, the heart of a king, but she gave
you not a kingdom, of which therefore Fortune could not deprive
you. But I doubt whether our age can furnish an example of
worse or better treatment from her than yourself. In the first
part of your life you were blest with an admirable constitution
and astonishing health and vigour : some years after we beheld
you thrice abandoned by the physicians, who despaired of your
life. The heavenly Physician, who was your sole resource, re-
stored your health, but not your former strength. You were
then called iron-footed, for your singular force and agility : you

300 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PETRARCH.

are now bent, and lean upon the shoulders of those whom you
formerly supported. Your country beheld you one day its
governor, the next an exile. Princes disputed for your friend-
ship, and afterwards conspired your ruin. You lost by death the
greatest part of your friends ; the rest, according to custom,
deserted you in calamity. To these misfortunes was added a
violent disease, which attacked you when destitute of all succours,
at a distance from your country and family, in a strange land, in-
vested by the troops of your enemies ; so that those two or three
friends whom fortune had left you could not come near to relieve
you. In a word, you have experienced every hardship but im-
prisonment and death. But what do I say1? You have felt all
the horrors of the former, when your faithful wife and children
were shut up by your enemies : and even death followed you, and
took one of those children, for whose loss you would willingly
have sacrificed your own.

In you have been united the fortunes of Pompey and Marius :
but you were neither arrogant in prosperity as the one, nor dis-
couraged in adversity as the other. You have supported both in
a manner that has made you loved by your friends and admired
by your enemies. There is a peculiar charm in the serene and
tranquil air of virtue, which enlightens all around it, in the midst
of the darkest scenes, and the greatest calamities. My ancient
friendship for you has caused me to quit everything for you to
perform a work, in which, as in a glass, you may adjust and pre-
pare your soul for all events ; and be able to say, as ^Eneas did
to the Sybil, " Nothing of this is new to me ; I have foreseen,
and am prepared for it all." I am sensible that, in the disorders of
the mind, as well as those of the body, discourses are not thought
the most efficacious remedies ; but I am persuaded also that the
malady of the soul ought to be cured by spiritual applications.

If we see a friend in distress, and give him all the consolation
we are able, we perform the duties of friendship, which pays more
attention to the disposition of the heart than the value of the gift.
A small present may be the testimony of a great love. There is
no good I do not wish you, and this is all I can offer toward it.

ROBERT HALL.] REFLECTIONS ON WAR. 301

I wish this little treatise may be of use to you. If it should not
answer my hopes, I shall, however, be secure of pardon from
your friendship. It presents you with the four great passions :
Hope and Joy, the daughters of Prosperity : Fear and Grief, the
offspring of Adversity ; who attack the soul, and launch at it all
their arrows. Reason commands in the citadel to repulse them :
your penetration will easily perceive which side will obtain the
victory.

232.— gjefler&m* 0n Wwc.

ROBERT HALL.

WAR may be considered in two views, as it affects the happi-
ness, and as it affects the virtue of mankind; as a source of
misery, and as a source of crimes.

Though we must all die, as the woman of Tekoa said, and are
as water spilt upon the ground which cannot be gathered up, yet it is
impossible for a humane mind to contemplate the rapid extinction
of innumerable lives without concern. To perish in a moment,
to be hurried instantaneously, without preparation and without
warning, into the presence of the Supreme Judge, has something
in it inexpressibly awful and affecting. Since the commencement
of those hostilities which are now so happily closed, it may be
reasonably conjectured that not less than half a million of our
fellow-creatures have fallen a sacrifice. Half a million of beings,
sharers of the same nature, warmed with the same hopes, and as
fondly attached to life as ourselves, have been prematurely swept
into the grave : each of whose deaths has pierced the heart of a
wife, a parent, a brother, or a sister ! How many of these scenes
of complicated distress have occurred since the commencement
of hostilities is known only to Omniscience : that they are in-
numerable cannot admit of a doubt. In some parts of Europe,
perhaps, there is scarcely a family exempt.

Though the whole race of man is doomed to dissolution, and
we are all hastening to our long home ; yet, at each successive

302 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROBERT HALL.

moment, life and death seem to divide betwixt them the dominion
of mankind, and life to have the largest share. It is otherwise in
war : death reigns there without a rival, and without control.
War is the work, the element, or rather the sport and triumph, of
death, who glories, not only in the extent of his conquest, but in
the richness of his spoil. In the other methods of attack, in the
other forms which death assumes, the feeble and the aged, who
at the best can live but a short time, are usually the victims ;
here it is the vigorous and the strong. It is remarked by an
ancient historian, that in peace children bury their parents, in
war parents bury their children : nor is the difference small.
Children lament their parents, sincerely indeed, but with that
moderate and tranquil sorrow which it is natural for those to feel
who are conscious of retaining many tender ties, many animating
prospects. Parents mourn for their children with the bitterness
of despair ; the aged parent, the widowed mother, loses, when
she is deprived of her children, everything but the capacity of
suffering ; her heart, withered and desolate, admits no other
object, cherishes no other hope. // is Rachel weeping for her
children, and refusing to be comforted, because they are not.

But to confine our attention to the number of the slain would
give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the sword. The
lot of those who perish instantaneously may be considered, apart
from religious prospects, as comparatively happy, since they are
exempt from those lingering diseases and slow torments to which
others are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, though a
stranger or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted
by compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. Every
trace of resentment vanishes in a moment : every other emotion
gives way to pity and terror. In these last extremities, we re-
member nothing but the respect and tenderness due to our
common nature. What a scene, then, must a field of battle pre-
sent, where thousands are left without assistance, and without
pity, with their wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the
blood, freezing as it flows, binds them to the earth, amidst the
trampling of horses, and the insults of an enraged foe ! If they

ROBERT HALL.] REFLECTIONS ON WAR. 303

are spared by the humanity of the enemy, and carried from the
field, it is but a prolongation of torment. Conveyed in uneasy
vehicles, often to a remote distance, through roads almost im-
passable, they are lodged in ill-prepared receptacles for the
wounded and the sick, where the variety of distress baffles all the
efforts of humanity and skill, and renders it impossible to give to
each the attention he demands. Far from their native home, no
tender assiduities of friendship, no well-known voice, no wife, or
mother, or sister, is near to soothe their sorrows, relieve their
thirst, or close their eyes in death. Unhappy man ! and must
you be swept into the grave unnoticed and unnumbered, and no
friendly tear be shed for your suffering, or mingled with your
dust]

We must remember, however, that as a very small proportion
of a military life is spent in actual combat, so it is a very small
part of its miseries which must be ascribed to this source. More
are consumed by the rust of inactivity than by the edge of the
sword ; confined to a scanty or unwholesome diet, exposed in
sickly climates, harassed with tiresome marches and perpetual
alarms, their life is a continual scene of hardships and dangers.
They grow familiar with hunger, cold, and watchfulness. Crowded
into hospitals and prisons, contagion spreads among their ranks,
till the ravages of disease exceed those of the enemy.

We have hitherto only adverted to the sufferings of those who
are engaged in the profession of arms, without taking into our
account the situation of the countries which are the scene of
hostilities. How dreadful to hold everything at the mercy of an
enemy, and to receive life itself as a boon dependent on the
sword. How boundless the fears which such a situation must
inspire, where the issues of life and death are determined by no
known laws, principles, or customs, and no conception can be
formed of our destiny except as far as it is dimly deciphered in
characters of blood, in the dictates of revenge, and the caprices
of power. Conceive, but for a moment, the consternation which
the approach of an invading army would impress on the peace-
ful villages in this neighbourhood. When you have placed your-

304 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROBERT HALL.

self for an instant in that situation, you will learn to sympathise
with those unhappy countries which have sustained the ravages
of arms. But how is it possible to give you an idea of these
horrors ? Here you behold rich harvests, the bounty of Heaven
and the reward of industry, consumed in a moment, or trampled
under foot, while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desola-
tion. There the cottages of peasants given up to the flames,
mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves but for their
infants ; the inhabitants flying with their helpless babes in all
directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil. In another
part, you witness opulent cities taken by storm; the streets,
where no sounds were heard but those of peaceful industry, filled
on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries
of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of nobles de-
molished, the houses of the rich pillaged, the chastity of virgins
and of matrons violated, and every age, sex, and rank, mingled
in promiscuous massacre and ruin.

If we consider the maxims of war which prevailed in the
ancient world, and which still prevail in many barbarous nations,
we perceive that those who survived the fury of battle and the
insolence of victory, were only reserved for more durable calami-
ties , swept into hopeless captivity, exposed in markets, or
plunged in mines, with the melancholy distinction bestowed on
princes and warriors, after appearing in the triumphal procession
of the conqueror, of being conducted to instant death. The
contemplation of such scenes as these forces on us this awful
reflection, that neither the fury of wild beasts, the concussions of
the earth, nor the violence of tempests, are to be compared to
the ravages of arms ; and that nature in her utmost extent, or,
more properly, divine justice in its utmost severity, has supplied
no enemy to man so terrible as man.

Still, however, it would be happy for mankind if the effects of
national hostility terminated here ; but the fact is, that they who
are farthest removed from its immediate desolations share largely
in the calamity. They are drained of the most precious part of
their population, their youth, to repair the waste made by the

ROBERT HALL.] REFLECTIONS ON WAR. 305

sword. They are drained of their wealth, by the prodigious ex-
pense incurred in the equipment of fleets, and the subsistence of
armies in remote parts. The accumulation of debt and taxes di-
minishes the public strength, and depresses private industry. An
augmentation in the price of the necessaries of life, inconvenient
to all classes, falls with peculiar weight on the labouring poor,
who must carry their industry to market every day, and therefore
cannot wait for that advance of price which gradually attaches to
every other article. Of all people, the poor are, on this account,
the greatest sufferers by war, and have the most reason to rejoice
in the restoration of peace.

In commercial states, (of which Europe principally consists,)
whatever interrupts their intercourse is a fatal blow to national
prosperity. Such states having a mutual dependence on each
other, the effects of their hostility extend far beyond the parties
engaged in the contest. If there be a country highly commercial
which has a decided superiority in wealth and industry, together
with a fleet which enables it to protect its trade, the commerce of
such a country may survive the shock, but it is at the expense of
the commerce of all other nations : a painful reflection to a gener-
ous mind. Even there, the usual channels of trade being closed,
it is some time before it can force a new passage for itself: pre-
vious to which an almost total stagnation takes place, by which
multitudes are impoverished, and thousands of the industrious
poor, being thrown out of employment, are plunged into wretch-
edness and beggary. Who can calculate the number of indus-
trious families in different parts of the world, to say nothing of
our own country, who have been reduced to poverty from this
cause since the peace of Europe was interrupted ?

The plague of a widely-extended war possesses, in fact, a sort
of omnipresence, by which it makes itself everywhere felt ; for,
while it gives up myriads to slaughter in one part of the globe,
it is busily employed in scattering over countries exempt from
its immediate desolations the seeds of famine, pestilence, and
death.

If statesmen — if Christian statesmen, at least — had a proper
VOL. in. u

306 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Taos. CAMPBELU

feeling on this subject, and would open their hearts to the reflec-
tions which such scenes must inspire, instead of rushing eagerly
to arms from the thirst of conquest or the thirst of gain, would
they not hesitate long, would they not ^ry every expedient, every
lenient art consistent with national honour, before they ventured
on this desperate remedy, or rather before they plunged into this
gulf of horror 1

HOHENLINDEN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

IT was near Hohenlinden, a village of Bavaria, between the rivers Inn and
Iser, on the 3d of December 1800, that one of the greatest battles took place,
between the French and Bavarian army on the one side, and the Austrians
on the other ; the former was under the generalship of Moreau ; the latter
under Archduke John. The conflict began at seven in the morning. The
deep snow had obliterated the tracks of roads ; several Austrian columns were
bewildered, and either came not at all into their position, or came too late ;
yet the battle was obstinate and severe. Ten thousand of the Austrians were
left dead on the field, and they lost near eleven thousand prisoners and one
hundred pieces of cannon.

On Linden, when the sun was low, But redder yet that light shall glow

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, On Linden's hills of stained snow,

And dark as winter was the flow And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly : Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

When the drum beat at dead of Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,

night, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Commanding fires of death to light Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The darkness of her scenery.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Who rush to glory or the grave !

Each horseman drew his battle-blade, Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And furious every charger neigh'd And charge with all thy chivalry!
To join the dreadful revelry.

Few, few, shall part where many
Then shook the hills with thunder meet!

riven, The snow shall be their winding-
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, sheet,

And louder than the bolts of heaven, And every turf beneath their feet

Far flash'd the red artillery. Shall be a soldier's sepulchre I

H. T. TUCKERMAN.] A DEFENCE OF ENTHUSIASM. 307

233.— |, gefettc 0f (gntjwsiasm.

H. T. TUCKERMAN.

[HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN is a living American writer, who, like
many others of his literary contemporaries, has passed much time in Europe.
He is an agreeable essayist and a pleasing poet. The tendencies of his mind
are strangely opposed to the false and chilling philosophy which sees nothing
but in material things which have a market value.]

Let us recognise the beauty and power of true enthusiasm ;
ind, whatever we may do to enlighten ourselves and others, guard
against checking or chilling a single earnest sentiment. For what
is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions or strength-
ened by exercise, unaccompanied by an ardent and sensitive
heart ? Its light may illumine, but it cannot inspire. It may shed
a cold and moonlight radiance upon the path of life, but it warms
no flower into bloom ; it sets free no ice-bound fountains. Dr
Johnson used to say, that an obstinate rationality prevented him
from being a Papist. Does not the same cause prevent many of
us from unburdening our hearts and breathing our devotions at
the shrines of nature? There are influences which environ
humanity too subtle for the dissecting-knife of reason. In our
better moments we are clearly conscious of their presence, and if
there is any barrier to their blessed agency it is a formalised in-
tellect. Enthusiasm, too, is the very life of gifted spirits. Pon-
der the lives of the glorious in art or literature through all ages.
What are they but records of toil and sacrifices supported by the
earnest hearts of their votaries 1 Dante composed his immortal
poem amid exile and suffering, prompted by the noble ambition
of vindicating himself to posterity ; and the sweetest angel of his
paradise is the object of his early love. The best countenances
the old painters have bequeathed to us are those of cherished
objects intimately associated with their fame. The face of
Raphael's mother blends with the angelic beauty of all his
Madonnas. Titian's daughter and the wife of Correggio again
and again meet in their works. Well does Foscolo call the fine
arts the children of love. The deep interest with which the

308 HALF-HOUKS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. T. TUCKERMAN.

Italians hail gifted men, inspires them to the mightiest efforts.
National enthusiasm is the great nursery of genius. When
Cellini's statue of Perseus was first exhibited on the Piazza at
Florence, it was surrounded for days by an admiring throng, and
hundreds of tributary sonnets were placed upon its pedestal.
Petrarch was crowned with laurel at Rome for his poetical
labours, and crowds of the unlettered may still be seen on the
Mole at Naples, listening to a reader of Tasso. Reason is not
the only interpreter of life. The fountain of action is in the
feelings. Religion itself is but a state of the affections. I once
met a beautiful peasant woman in the valley of the Arno, and
asked the number of her children. " I have three here, and two
in Paradise," she calmly replied, with a tone and manner of
touching and grave simplicity. Her faith was of the heart.
Constituted as human nature is, it is in the highest degree
natural that rare powers should be excited by voluntary and
spontaneous appreciation. Who would not feel urged to high
achievement, if he knew that every beauty his canvas dis-
played, or every perfect note he breathed, or every true in-
spiration of his lyre, would find an instant response in a
thousand breasts'? Lord Brougham calls the word " impos-
sible " the mother-tongue of little souls. What, I ask, can
counteract self-distrust, and sustain the higher efforts of our
nature, but enthusiasm ? More of this element would call forth
the genius and gladden the life of New England. While the
mere intellectual man speculates, and the mere man of acquisition
cites authority, the man of feeling acts, realises, puts forth his
complete energies. His earnest and strong heart will not let his
mind rest; he is urged by an inward impulse to embody his
thoughts. He must have sympathy ; he must have results.
And nature yields to the magician, acknowledging him as her
child. The noble statue comes forth from the marble, the speak-
ing figure stands out from the canvas, the electric chain is struck
in the bosoms of his fellows. They receive his ideas, respond to
his appeal, and reciprocate his love.

Constant supplies of knowledge to the intellect, and the ex-

H. T. TUCKERMAN.] A DEFENCE OF ENTHUSIASM. 309

elusive culture of reason may, indeed, make a pedant and logi-
cian ; but the probability is, these benefits, if such they are, will
be gained at the expense of the soul. Sentiment, in its broadest
acceptation, is as essential to the true enjoyment and grace of life
as mind. Technical information, and that quickness of apprehen-
sion which New Englanders call smartness, are not so valuable to
a human being as sensibility to the beautiful, and a spontaneous
appreciation of the divine influences which fill the realms of
vision, of sound, and the world of action and feeling. The tastes,
affections, and sentiments are more absolutely the man than his
talents or acquirements. And yet it is by and through the latter
that we are apt to estimate character, of which they are, at best,
but fragmentary evidences. It is remarkable that, in the New
Testament, allusions to the intellect are so rare, while the
" heart " and the " spirit we are of" are ever appealed to. Sym-
pathy is the "golden key" which unlocks the treasures of wisdom;
and this depends upon vividness and warmth of feeling. It is
therefore that Tranio advises — " in brief, sir, study what you most
affect/' A code of etiquette may refine the manners, but the
"heart of courtesy" which, through the world, stamps the
natural gentleman, can never be attained but through instinct ;
and, in the same manner, those enriching and noble sentiments,
which are the most beautiful and endearing of human qualities,
no process of mental training will create. To what end is
society, popular education, churches, and all the machinery of
culture, if no living truth is elicited which fertilises as well as en-
lightens? Shakspere undoubtedly owed his marvellous insight
into the human soul to his profound sympathy with man. He
might have conned whole libraries on the philosophy of the
passions ; he might have coldly observed facts for years, and
never have conceived of jealousy like Othello's, the remorse of
Macbeth, or love like that of Juliet. When the native sentiments
are once interested, new facts spring to light. It was under the
excitement of wonder and love that Byron, tossed on the lake of
Geneva, thought that "Jura answered from her misty shroud,"
responsive to the thunder of the Alps. With no eye of mere

310 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [H. T. TUCKERMAN.

curiosity did Bryant follow the lonely flight of the water-fowl.
Veneration prompted the inquiry, —

"Whither 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way ? "

Sometimes, in musing upon genius in its simpler manifestations,
it seems as if the great act of human culture consisted chiefly in
preserving the glow and freshness of the heart. It is certain that,
in proportion as its merly mental strength and attainment take
the place of natural sentiment, in proportion as we acquire the
habit of receiving all impressions through the reason, the teach-
ings of nature grow indistinct and cold, however it may be with
those of books. That this is the tendency of the New England
philosophy of life and education, I think can scarcely be disputed.
I have remarked that some of our most intelligent men speak of
mastering a subject, or comprehending a book, of settling a ques-
tion, as if those processes involved the whole idea of human culti-
vation. The reverse of all this is chiefly desirable. It is when
we are .overcome, and the pride of intellect vanquished before the
truth of nature, when, instead of coming to a logical decision, we
are led to bow in profound reverence before the mysteries of life,
when we are led back to childhood, or up to God, by some power-
ful revelation of the sage or minstrel, it is then our natures grow.
To this end is all art. Exquisite vocalism, beautiful statuary and
painting, and all true literature, have not for their great object to
employ the ingenuity of prying critics, or furnish the world with
a set of new ideas, but to move the whole nature by the perfec-
tion and truthfulness of their appeal. There is a certain atmo-
sphere exhaled from the inspired page of genius, which gives
vitality to the sentiments and through these quickens the mental
powers. And this is the chief good of books. Were it otherwise,
those of us who have bad memories might despair of advance-
ment. I have heard educated New Englanders boast of the
quantity of poetry they have read in a given time, as if rich
fancies and elevated thoughts are to be despatched as are beef-

H. T. TUCKKRMAN.] A DEFENCE OF ENTHUSIASM. 3 1 j

steaks on board our steamboats. Newspapers are estimated by
their number of square feet, as if this had anything to do with
the quality of their contents Journeys of pleasure are frequently
deemed delightful in proportion to their rapidity, without refer-
ence to the new scenery or society they bring into view. Social
gatherings are not seldom accounted brilliant in the same degree
that they are crowded. Such would not be the case, if what the
phrenologists call the effective powers were enough considered ;
if the whole soul, instead of the " meddling intellect " alone, was
freely developed ; if we realised the truth thus expressed by a
powerful writer : — " Within the entire circle of our intellectual
constitution, we value nothing but emotion ; it is not the powers,
but the fruit of those powers, in so much feeling of a lofty kind
as they will yield."

One of the most obvious consequences of these traits appears
in social intercourse. Foreigners have ridiculed certain external
habits of Americans, but these were always confined to the few,
and where most prevalent have yielded readily to censure. There
are incongruities of manners still more objectionable, because the
direct exponents of character, and resulting from the philosophy
of life. Delicacy and self-respect are the fruits not so much of
intellect and sensibility. We are considerate towards others in
proportion as our own consciousness gives us insight. The
sympathies are the best teachers of politeness \ and these are
ever blunted by an exclusive reliance on perception. Nothing
is more common than to find educated New Englanders uncon-
sciously invading the privacy of others, to indulge their idle
curiosity, or giving a personal turn to conversation, in a way that
outrages all moral refinement This is observable in society pro-
fessedly intellectual. It is scarcely deemed rude to allude to one's
personal appearance, health, dress, circumstances, or even most
sacred feelings, although neither intimacy nor confidence lends
the slightest authority to the proceeding. Such violation of what
is due to others is more frequently met with among the cultivated
of this than any other country. It is comparatively rare here to
encounter a natural gentleman. A New England philosopher, in

312 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. T. TUCKERMAH.

a recent work,* betrays no little fear of " excess of fellowship."
In the region he inhabits there is ground for the apprehension.
No standard of manners will correct the evil. The peasantry of
Southern Europe, and the most ignorant Irishwoman, often ex-
cel educated New Englanders in genuine courtesy. Their richer
feelings teach them how to deal with others. Reverence and
tenderness (not self-possession and intelligence) are the hallowed
avenues through which alone true souls come together. The cool
satisfaction with which character is analysed and denned in New
England is an evidence of the superficial test which observation
alone affords. A Yankee dreams not of the world which is re-
vealed only through sentiment. Men. and especially women,
shrink from unfolding the depths of their natures to the cold and
prying gaze which aims to explore them only as an intellectual
diversion. It is the most presumptuous thing in the world for
an unadulterated New Englander, however 'cute and studious, to
pretend to know another human being, if nobly endowed ; for he
is the last person to elicit latent and cherished emotions. He
may read mental capacities and detect moral tendencies, but no
familiarity will unveil the inner temple ; only in the vestibule will
his prying step be endured.

Another effect of this exaggerated estimate of intellect is, that
talent and character are often regarded as identical. This is a
fatal but very prevalent error. A gift of mind, let it ever be re-
membered, is not a grace of soul. Training, or native skill, will
enable any one to excel in the machinery of expression. The
phrase — artistical, whether in reference to statuary, painting, lite-
rature, or manners, implies only aptitude and dexterity. Who is
not aware, for instance, of the vast difference between a merely
scientific knowledge of music and that enlistment of the sympa-
thies in the heart which makes it the eloquent medium of passion,
sentiment, and truth 1 And in literature, how often do we find
the most delicate perception of beauty in the writer, combined
with a total want of genuine refinement in the man? Art is
essentially imitative ; and its value, as illustrative of character,
* Emerson's Essays, Second Series.

H. T. TUCKERMAN.] A DEFENCE OF ENTHUSIASM. 313

depends, not upon the mental endowments, but upon the moral
integrity of the artist. The idea of talent is associated more or
less with the idea of success ; and on this account the lucrative
creed of the New Englander recognises it with indiscriminate ad-
miration ; but there is a whole armoury of weapons in the human
bosom of more celestial temper. It is a nobler and a happier
thing to be capable of self-devotion, loyalty, and generous sym-
pathies, to cherish a quick sense of honour, and find absolute
comfort only in being lost in another, than to have an eye for
colour, whereby the rainbow can be transferred to canvas, or a
felicity of diction that can embalm the truest pictures in immortal
numbers. Not only or chiefly in what he does resides the signifi-
cance of a human being. His field of action and the availability
of his powers depend upon health, education, self-reliance, posi-
tion, and a thousand other agencies ; what he is results from the
instincts of his soul, and for these alone he is truly to be loved.
It is observable among New Englanders that an individual's
qualities are less frequently referred to as a test of character than
his performances. It is very common for them to sacrifice social
and private to public character, friendship to fame, sympathy to
opinion, love to ambition, and sentiment to propriety. There is
an obvious disposition among them to appraise men and women
at their market rather than their intrinsic value. A lucky specula-
tion, a profitable invention, a saleable book, an effective rhetorical
effort, or a sagacious political ruse — some fact, which proves at
best only adroitness and good fortune — is deemed the best escut-
cheon to lend dignity to life, or hang as a lasting memorial upon
the tomb. Those more intimate revelations and ministries which
deal with the inmost gifts of mind, and warmest emotions of the
heart, and through which alone love and truth are realised, are
but seldom dreamt of in their philosophy.

There is yet another principle which seems to me but faintly
recognised in the New England philosophy of life, however it
may be occasionally cultivated as a department of literature ; and
yet it is one which we should deem essentially dear to man, a
glorious er^wment, a crowning grace of humanity. It is that

314 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. T. TOCKERMAI*.

principle through which we commune with all that is lovely and
grand in the universe, which mellows the pictures of memory into
pensive beauty, and irradiates the visions of hope with unearthly
brightness ; which elevates our social experience by the glow of
fancy, and exhibits scenes of perfection to the soul that the senses
can never realise. It is the poetical principle. If this precious
gift could be wholly annihilated amid the commonplace and the
actual, we should lose the interest of life. The dull routine of
daily experience, the tame reality of things, would weigh like a
heavy and permanent cloud upon our hearts. But the office of
this divine spirit is to throw a redeeming grace around the objects
and the scenes of being. It is the breeze that lifts the weeds on
the highway of time, and brings to view the violets beneath. It
is the holy water which, sprinkled on the mosaic pavement of
life, makes vivid its brilliant tints. It is the mystic harp upon
whose strings the confused murmur of toil, gladness, and grief
loses itself in music. But it performs a yet higher function than
that of consolation. It is through the poetical principle that we
form images of excellence, a notion of progress that quickens
every other faculty to rich endeavour. All great men are so,
chiefly through unceasing effort to realise in action, or embody in
art, sentiments of deep interest or ideas of beauty. As colours
exist in rays of light, so does the ideal in the soul, and life is the
mighty prism which refracts it. Shelley maintains that it is only
through the imagination that we can overleap the barriers of self,
and become identified with the universal and the distant, and,
therefore, that this principle is the true fountain of benevolent
affections and virtue. I know it is sometimes said that the era of
romance has passed ; that with the pastoral, classic, and chival-
rous periods of the world, the poetic element died out. But this
is manifestly a great error. The forms of society have greatly
changed, and the periods of poetical development are much mo-
dified, but the principle itself is essential to humanity. No ! me-
chanical as is the spirit of the age, and wide as is the empire of
utility, as long as the, stars appear nightly in the firmament, and
golden clouds gather around the departing sun; as long as we

H. T. TUCKERMAN.] A DEFENCE OF ENTHUSIASM. 315

can greet the innocent smile of infancy and the gentle eye of
woman ; as long as this earth is visited by visions of glory and
dreams of love and hopes of heaven ; while life is encircled by
mystery, brightened by affection, and solemnised by death, so
long will the poetical spirit be abroad, with its fervent aspirations
and deep spells of enchantment. Again, it is often urged that
the poetical spirit belongs appropriately to a certain epoch of
life, and that its influence naturally ceases with youth. But this
can only be the case through self-apostasy. The poetical ele-
ment was evidently intended to mingle with the whole of human
experience ; not only to glow in the breast of youth, but to dig-
nify the thought of manhood, and make venerable the aspect
of age. Its purpose clearly is to relieve the sternness of neces-
sity, to lighten the burden of toil, and throw sacredness and hope
even around suffering — as the old painters were wont to depict
groups of cherubs above their martyrdoms. Nor can I believe
that the agency of this principle is so confined and temporary as
many suppose. It is true our contemplation of the beautiful is of
short duration, our flights into the ideal world brief and occa-
sional. We can but bend in passing at the altar of beauty, and
pluck a flower hastily by the wayside ; — but may there not be an
instinct which eagerly appropriates even these transitory associa-
tions 1 May they not be unconsciously absorbed into the essence
of our life, and gradually refine and exalt the spirit within us 1 I
cannot think that such rich provision for the poetic sympathies is
intended for any casual or indifferent end. Rather let us believe
there is a mystic language in the flowers, and a deep meaning in
the stars, that the transparency of the winter air and the long
sweetness of summer twilight pass, with imperceptible power,
over the soul ; rather let us cherish the thought that the absorb-
ing emotions of love, the sweet excitement of adventure, and the
impassioned solemnity of grief, with a kind of spiritual chemistry
combine and purify the inward elements into nobler action and
more perfect results. Of the poetical principle, the philosophy of
life in New England makes little account. Emblems of the past
do not invite the gaze down the vistas of time. Reverence is

316 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. T. TUCKERMAW.

seldom awakened by any object, custom, or association. The
new, the equal, the attainable, constantly deaden our faith in infi-
nite possibilities. Life rarely seems miraculous, and the common-
place abounds. There is much to excite, and little to chasten
and awe. We need to see the blessedness of a rational conser-
vatism, as well as the inspiring call for reform. There are vener-
able and lovely agencies in this existence of ours which it is sac-
rilege to scorn. The wisdom of our renowned leaders in all de-
partments is too restless and conscious to be desirable, and it
would be better for our boasted " march of mind," if, like the
quaint British essayist, a few more " were dragged along in the
procession." An extravagant spirit of utility invades every scene
of life, however sequestered. We attempt not to brighten the
grim features of care, or relieve the burdens of responsibility.
The daughter of a distinguished law professor in Europe was in
the habit of lecturing in her father's absence. To guard against
the fascination of her charms, which it was feared would divert
the attention of the students, a curtain was drawn before the fair
teacher, from behind which she imparted her instructions. Thus
do we carefully keep out of sight the poetical and veil the spirit
of beauty, that we may worship undisturbed at the shrine of the
practical. We ever seek the light of knowledge ; but are content
that no fertilising warmth lend vitality to its beams.

When the returning pilgrim approaches the shores of the new
world, the first sign of the vicinity of his native land is traced in
hues of rare glory on the western sky. The sunsets grow more
and more gorgeous as he draws near, and while he leans over the
bulwarks of a gallant vessel, (whose matchless architecture illus-
trates the mechanical skill of her birthplace,) and watches their
shifting brilliancy, it associates itself with the fresh promise and
young renown of his native land \ and when, from the wide soli-
tude of the Atlantic, he plunges once more amid her eager
crowds, it is with the earnest, and, I must think, patriotic wish,
that with her prosperous activity might mingle more of the poetry
of life.

But what the arrangements of society fail to provide, the indi-

KEATS-] TO HIS BROTHER. 317

vidual is at liberty to seek. Nowhere are natural beauty and
grandeur more lavishly displayed than on this continent. In no
part of the world are there such noble rivers, beautiful lakes, and
magnificent forests. The ermine robe of winter is, in no land,
spread with more dazzling effect, nor can the woodlands of any
clime present a more varied array of autumnal tints. Nor need
we resort to the glories of the universe alone. Domestic life
exists with us in rare perfection ; and it requires but the heroism
of sincerity, and the exercise of taste, to make the fireside as rich
in poetical associations, as the terrace and veranda of southern
lands. Literature, too, opens a rich field. We can wander
through Eden to the music of the blind bard's harp, or listen
in the orange groves of Verona, beneath the quiet moonlight,
to the sweet vows of Juliet. Let us, then, bravely obey our sym-
pathies, and find, in candid and devoted relations with others,
freedom from the constraints of prejudice and form. Let us
foster the enthusiasm which exclusive intellectual cultivation
would extinguish. Let us detach ourselves sufficiently from the
social machinery to realise that we are not integral parts of it ;
and thus summon into the horizon of destiny those hues of
beauty, love, and truth, which are the most glorious reflections of
the soul 1

234.— ®0 Ma gnrffar,

KEATS.

[JOHN KEATS was born in London in 1 796. He died at Rome at the early
age of twenty-four. Every one knows Byron's allusion to the supposed cause
of his death :—

"'lis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuffed out by an article."

Moncton Milnes, himself no mean poet, has published a delightful Life of
John Keats. It is a charming contribution to literary biography, and un-
questionably tends to raise the general appreciation of the character of that
most original poet. We find from his letters that Keats stood up manfully
against neglect and abuse ; that he had a noble confidence in his own powers
to accomplish something excellent ; that his poetical capacity was not an im-

3-8

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

[KEATS.

mature thing, but was gradually nourished and enlarged by earnest thought
and patient study. But, with all his calm endurance, we can scarcely bring
ourselves to agree with his accomplished biographer, that the ungenerous
attacks upon him did not deeply trouble his spirit. Great minds have the
same loathing as Coriolanus, on a display of their wounds. It is delightful,
at any rate, to know that such oppression did not enfeeble his mental energy,
and that the poetical temperament in his case and in hundreds of others, has
been proved to possess the best courage — that of patience and fortitude.

Keats published, in 1818, "Endymion, a Poetic Romance;" in 1820,
" Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St Agnes, and other Poems." These may now be
obtained in a cheap form.]

Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness ; in seasons when I Ve thought
No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays ;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely :
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along

KEATS.] TO HIS BROTHER. 319

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen :

That the still murmur of the honey-bee

Would never teach a rural song to me :

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelid slanting

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,

Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold

Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times when those that love the bay

Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ;

A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see

In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,

(For knightly Spenser to Libertus told it,)

That when a poet is in such a trance,

In air he sees white coursers paw and prance,

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel ;

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,

Is the swift opening of their wide portal,

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,

Whose tones reach nought on earth but poet's ear ;

When these enchanted portals open wide,

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,

The poet's eye can reach those golden halls,

And view the glory of their festivals ;

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem

Fit for the silvering of a seraph's dream •

Their rich brimmed goblets that incessant run,

Like the bright spots that move about the sun ;

And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar

Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers,

Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ;

And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows

320 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [KEATS.

'Twould make the poet quarrel with the rose.
All that 's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses,
Is the clear fountains interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore ;
Should he upon an evening ramble fare,
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark silent blue,
With all its diamonds trembling through and through ?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ?
Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight—-
The revelries and mysteries of night :
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These aye the living pleasures of the bard :

But richer far posterity's award.

What does he murmur with his latest breath,

While his proud eye looks through the film of death ?

" What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,

Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold

With after-times. The patriot shall feel

My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel ;

Or in the senate thunder out my numbers,

To startle princes from their easy slumbers.

The sage will mingle with each moral theme

My happy thoughts sententious : he will teem

With lofty periods when my verses fire him,

•KEATS.] TO HIS BROTHER. 321

And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire him.

Lays have I left of such a dear delight,

That maids will sing them on their bridal-night,

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play,

And form'd a snowy circle on the grass,

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass

Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head

Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red :

For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing,

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying :

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,

A bunch of violets full blown, and double,

Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes

A little book, — and then a joy awakes

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries,

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes :

For she 's to read a tale of hopes and fears ;

One that I fostered in my youthful years :

The pearls that on each glistening circlet sleep,

Gush ever and anon with silent creep,

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,

Be lulFd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu !

Thy dales and hills are fading from my view :

Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions,

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions :

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,

And warm thy sons ! " Ah, my dear friend and brother,

Could I at once my mad ambition smother,

For lasting joys like these, sure I should be

Happier and dearer to society.

At times, 'tis true, I Ve felt relief from pain

When some bright thought has darted through my brain:

Through all that day I Ve felt a greater pleasure

VOL. III. X

522 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MoNCTON MILNES.

Tli an if I 'd brought to light a hidden treasure.

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,

I feel delighted still that you should read them.

Of late, too, I have had much oglm enjoyment,

Stretch'd on the grass, at my best loved employment,

Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought

While in my face the freshest breeze I caught.

E'en now I 'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers

That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly towers

Above the ocean waves : the stalks and blades

Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.

On one side is a field of drooping oats,

Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats,

So pert and useless, that they bring to mind

The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

And on the other side, outspread, is seen

Ocean's blue mantle, purple-streak'd and green ;

Now 'tis I see a canvas'd ship, and now

Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.

I see the lark, down-dropping to his nest,

And the broad-wing'd sea-gull never at rest;

For when no more he spreads his feathers free,

His breast is dancing on the restless sea.

Now I direct my eyes into the west,

Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest :

Why westward turn *\ ;Twas but to say adieu !

'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George to you !

235.— tfDjmrato 0f fieais;

MONCTON MILNES.

THE last few pages have attempted to awaken a personal in
terest in the story of Keats almost apart from his literary character
— a personal interest founded on events that might easily hav

MONCTON MILNES.] CHARACTER OF KEATS. 323

occurred to a man of inferior ability, and rather affecting from
their moral than intellectual bearing. But now

" He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night ;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not, and torture not again ;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ;
Nor, when the spirit's self had ceased to burn,

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn : "

and, ere we close altogether these memorials of his short earthly
being, let us revert to the great distinctive peculiarities which
singled him out from his fellow-men, and gave him his rightful
place among " the inheritors of unfulfilled renown."

Let any man of literary accomplishment, though without the
habit of writing poetry, or even much taste foi reading it, open
" Endymion ;> at random, (to say nothing of the latter and more
perfect poems,) and examine the characteristics of the page before
him, and I shall be surprised if he does not feel that the whole
range of literature hardly supplies a parallel phenomenon. As a
psychological curiosity, perhaps Chatterton is more wonderful ;
but in him the immediate ability displayed is rather the full com-
prehension of, and identification with, the old model, than the
effluence of creative genius. In Keats, on the contrary, the
originality in the use of his scanty materials, his expansion of them
to the proportions of his own imagination, and, above all, his field
of diction and expression extending so far beyond his knowledge
of literature, is quite inexplicable to any of the ordinary processes
of mental education. If his classical learning had been deeper,
his seizure of the full spirit of Grecian beauty would have been
less surprising ; if his English reading had been more extensive,
his inexhaustible vocabulary of picturesque and mimetic words
could more easily be accounted for ; but here is a surgeon's ap-
prentice, with the ordinary culture of the middle classes, rivalling,
in aesthetic perceptions of antique life and thought, the most care-

324 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MONCTON MILNES.

ful scholars of his time and country, and reproducing these im-
pressions in a phraseology as complete and unconventional as if
he had mastered the whole history and the frequent variations of
the English tongue, and elaborated a made of utterance commen-
surate with his vast ideas.

The artistic absence of moral purpose may offend many readers,
and the just harmony of the colouring may appear to others a
displeasing monotony; but I think it impossible to lay the book
down without feeling that almost every line of it contains solid
gold enough to be beaten out, by common literary manufacturers,
into a poem of itself. Concentration of imagery, the hitting off a
picture at a stroke, the clear, decisive word that brings the thing
before you and will not let it go, are the rarest distinction of the
early exercise of the faculties. So much more is usually known
than digested by sensitive youth, so much more felt than under-
stood, so much more perceived than methodised, that diffusion
is fairly permitted in the earlier stages of authorship ; and it is
held to be one of the advantages, amid some losses of maturer in-
telligence, that it learns to fix and hold the beauty it apprehends,
and to crystallise the dew of its morning. Such examples to the
contrary, as the "Windsor Forest" of Pope, are rather scholastic
exercises of men who afterwards became great, than the first-fruits
of such genius, while all Keats's poems are early productions, and
there is nothing beyond them but the thought of what he might
have become. Truncated as is this intellectual life, it is still a
substantive whole, and the complete statue, of which such a frag-
ment is revealed to us, stands, perhaps solely in the temple of the
imagination. There is, indeed, progress, continual and visible,
in the works of Keats, but it is towards his own ideal of a poet,
not towards any defined and tangible model. All that we can do
is to transfer that ideal to ourselves, and to believe that, if Keats
had lived, that is what he would have been.

Contrary to the expectation of Mr Shelley, the appreciation of
Keats by men of thought and sensibility gradually rose after his
death, until he attained the place he now holds among the poets
of his country. By his side, too, the fame of this his friend and

MONCTON MILNES. ] CHARACTER OF KEA TS. 325

eulogist ascended, and now they rest together, associated in the
history of the achievements of the human imagination ; twin stars,
very cheering to the mental mariner tossed on the rough ocean
of practical life, and blown about by the gusts of calumny and mis-
representation ; but who, remembering what they have undergone,
forgets not that he also is divine.

Nor has Keats been without his direct influence on the poetical
literature that succeeded him. The most noted, and perhaps the
most original, of present poets, bears more analogy to him than
to any other writer, and their brotherhood has been well recog-
nised, in the words of a critic, himself a man of redundant fancy,
and of the widest perception of what is true and beautiful, lately
cut off from life by a destiny as mysterious as that which has here
been recounted. Mr Sterling writes : — " Lately I have been
reading again some of Alfred Tennyson's second volume, and with
profound admiration of his truely lyric and idyllic genius. There
seems to me to have been more epic power in Keats, that fiery,
beautiful meteor; but they are two most true and great poets.
When we think of the amount of recognition they have received,
one may well bless God that poetry is in itself strength and joy,
whether it be crowned by all mankind or left alone in its own
magic hermitage." *

And this is in truth the moral of the tale. In the life which
here lies before us, as plainly as a child's, the action of the poetic
faculty is most clearly visible : it long sustains in vigour and
delight a temperament naturally melancholy, and which, under
such adverse circumstances, might well have degenerated into
angry discontent: it imparts a wise temper and a courageous
hope to a physical constitution doomed to early decay ; and it
confines within manly affections and generous passion a nature
so impressible that sensual pleasures and sentimental tenderness
might easily have enervated and debased it. There is no de-
fect in the picture which the exercise of this power does not go
far to remedy, and no excellence which it does not elevate and
extend.

* Sterling's Essays and Tales, p. 168.

326 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GEORGE ELIOT.

One still graver lesson remains to be noted. Let no man, who
is anything above his fellows, claim, as of right, to be valued or
understood : the vulgar great are comprehended and adored, be-
cause they are in reality in the same moral plane with those who
admire ; but he who deserves the higher reverence must himself
convert the worshipper. The pure and lofty life ; the generous
and tender use of the rare creative faculty ; the brave endurance
of neglect and ridicule ; the strange and cruel end of so much
genius and so much virtue ; these are the lessons by which the
sympathies of mankind must be interested, and their faculties
educated, up to the love of such a character and the comprehen-
sion of such an intelligence. Still the lovers and scholars will be
few : still the rewards of fame will be scanty and ill-proportioned :
no accumulation of knowledge or series of experiences can teach
the meaning of genius to those who look for it in additions and
results, any more than the numbers studded round a planet's
orbit could approach nearer infinity than a single unit. .The
world of thought must remain apart from the world of action ;
for, if they once coincided, the problem of life would be solved,
and the hope, which we call heaven, would be realised on earth.
And therefore men

"Are cradled into poetry by wrong :
They learn in suffering what they teach in song."

236.— 8% f l

GEORGE ELIOT.

[WHEN the novel of "Adam Bede " appeared, about seven years ago, it was
at once seen that the place which Charlotte Bronte had left vacant would be
quickly taken by a writer of even superior qualifications for the highest walks
of fiction. However questionable it might be at first, the vigour and delicacy
of her delineations of female character left no doubt of the sex of the writer.
The little " Methody " is such a creation as perhaps no male author could
have accomplished. In a grander style is the conception of " Romola," the
Florentine enthusiast, though probably not so interesting to general readers
as the more familiar portraiture of the English modern, who has a humbler

GEORGE ELIOT.] THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN VILLAGE. 327

career of duty before her. We select a scene from "Romola" of rare beauty.
It may stand alone without any minute explanation of the circumstances which
have compelled the heroine to fly from her native city, in despair of the course
of public events, and in disgust at the weak husband who had abandoned her.
She gets into a boat, reckless of where the currents of the Mediterranean
would bear her, for " the bonds of all strong affection were snapped."]

Romola in her boat passed from dreaming into deep long sleep,
and then again from deep sleep into busy dreaming, till at last she
felt herself stretching out her arms in the court of the Bargello,
where the flickering flames of the tapers seemed to get stronger
and stronger till the dark scene was blotted out with light. Her
eyes opened, and she saw it was the light of morning. Her boat
was lying still in a little creek ; on her right hand lay the speck-
less sapphire blue of the Mediterranean ; on her left one of those
scenes which were and still are repeated again and again, like a
sweet rhythm on the shores of that loveliest sea.

In a deep curve of the mountains lay a breadth of green land,
curtained by gentle tree-shadowed slopes leaning towards the
rocky heights. Up these slopes might be seen here and there,
gleaming between the tree-tops, a pathway leading to a little
irregular mass of building that seemed to have clambered in a
hasty way up the mountain- side, and taken a difficult stand there
for the sake of showing the tall belfry as a sight of beauty to the
scattered and clustered houses of the village below. The rays of
the newly-risen sun fell obliquely on the westward horn of this
crescent-shaped nook : all else lay in dewy shadow. No sound
came across the stillness ; the very waters seemed to have curved
themselves there for rest.

The delicious sun-rays fell on Romola and thrilled her gently
like a caress. She lay motionless, hardly watching the scene ;
rather feeling simply the presence of peace and beauty. While
we are still in our youth there can always come, in our early wak-
ing, moments when mere passive existence is itself a Lethe, when
the exquisiteness of subtle indefinite sensation creates a bliss which
is without memory and without desire. As the soft warmth pene-
trated Romola's young limbs, as her eyes rested on this seques-

328 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [GEORGE ELIOT.

tered luxuriance, it seemed that the agitating past had glided away
like that dark scene in the Bargello, and that the afternoon dreams
of her girlhood had really come back to her. For a minute or
two the oblivion was untroubled ; she did not even think that she
could rest here for ever, she only felt thffc she rested. Then she
became distinctly conscious that she was lying in the boat which
had been bearing her over the waters all through the night. In-
stead of bringing her to death, it had been the gently lulling
cradle of a new life. And in spite of her evening despair, she
was glad that the morning had come to her again : glad to think
that she was resting in the familiar sunlight rather than in the un-
known regions of death. Could she not rest here 1 No sound
from Florence would reach her. Already oblivion was troubled ;
from behind the golden haze were piercing domes and towers
and walls, parted by a river and enclosed by the green hills.

She rose from her reclining posture and sat up in the boat,
willing, if she could, to resist the rush of thoughts that urged
themselves along with the conjecture how far the boat had carried
her. Why need she mind 1 This was a sheltered nook where
there were simple villagers who would not harm her. For a little
while, at least, she might rest and resolve on nothing. Presently
she would go and get some bread and milk, and then she would
nestle in the green quiet, and feel that there was a pause in her
life. She turned to watch the crescent-shaped valley, that she
might get back the soothing sense of peace and beauty which she
had felt in her first waking.

She had not been in this attitude of contemplation more than
a few minutes when across the stillness there came a piercing cry ;
not a brief cry, but continuous and more and more intense.
Romola felt sure it was the cry of a little child in distress that
no one came to help. She started up and put one foot on the
side of the boat ready to leap on to the beach ; but she paused
there and listened : the mother of the child must be near, the
cry must soon cease. But it went on, and drew Romola so irre-
sistibly, seeming the more piteous to her for the sense of peace
which had preceded it, that she jumped on to the beach and

GEORGE ELIOT.] THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN VILLAGE.

329

walked many paces before she knew what direction she would
take. The cry, she thought, came from some rough garden
growth many yards on her right hand, where she saw a half-ruined
hovel. She climbed over a low broken stone fence, and made her
way across patches of weedy green crops and ripe but neglected
corn. The cry grew plainer, and, convinced that she was right,
she hastened towards the hovel ; but even in that hurried walk
she felt an oppressive change in the air as she left the sea behind.
Was there some taint lurking amongst the green luxuriance that
had seemed such an inviting shelter from the heat of the coming
day 1 She could see the opening into the hovel now, and the
cry was darting through her like a pain. The next moment her
foot was within the doorway, but the sight she beheld in the sombre
light arrested her with a shock of awe and horror. On the straw,
with which the floor was scattered, lay three dead bodies, one of
a tall man, one of a girl about eight years old, and one of a young
woman whose long black hair was being clutched and pulled by
a living child — the child that was sending forth the piercing cry.
Romola's experience in the haunts of death and disease made
thought and action prompt : she lifted the little living child, and
in trying to soothe it on her bosom, still bent to look at the
bodies and see if they were really dead. The strongly-marked
type of race in their features, and their peculiar garb, made her
conjecture that they were Spanish or Portuguese Jews, who had
perhaps been put ashore and abandoned there by rapacious
sailors, to whom their property remained as a prey. Such things
were happening continually to Jews compelled to abandon their
homes by the Inquisition : the cruelty of greed thrust them from
the sea, and the cruelty of superstition thrust them back to it.

" But, surely," thought Romola, " I shall find some woman in
the village whose mother's heart will not let her refuse to tend
this helpless child — if the real mother is indeed dead."

This doubt remained, because while the man and girl looked
emaciated and also showed signs of having been long dead, the
woman seemed to have been hardier, and had not quite lost the
robustness of her form. Romola, kneeling, was about to lay her

330 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GEORGE ELIOT.

hand on the heart ; but as she lifted the piece of yellow woollen
drapery that lay across the bosom, she saw the purple spots which
marked the familiar pestilence. Then it struck her that if the
villagers knew of this, she might have more difficulty than she
had expected in getting help from them ; they would perhaps
shrink from her with that child in her arms. But she had money
to offer them, and they would not refuse to give her some goat's
milk in exchange for it.

She set out at once towards the village, her mind rilled now
with the effort to soothe the little dark creature, and with wonder-
ing how she should win some woman to be good to it. She
could not help hoping a little in a certain awe she had observed
herself to inspire, when she appeared, unknown and unexpected,
in her religious dress. As she passed across a breadth of culti-
vated ground, she noticed, with wonder, that little patches of corn
mingled with the other crops, had been left to over-ripeness, un-
touched by the sickle, and that golden apples and dark figs lay
rotting on the weedy ground. There were grassy spaces within
sight, but no cow, or sheep, or goat. The stillness began to
have something fearful in it to Romola ; she hurried along to-
wards the thickest cluster of houses, where there would be the
most life to appeal to on behalf of the helpless life she carried in
her arms. But she had picked up two figs, and bit little pieces
from the sweet pulp to still the child with.

She entered between two lines of dwellings. It was time the
villagers should have been stirring long ago, but not a soul was
in sight. The air was becoming more and more oppressive,
laden, it seemed, with some horrible impurity. There was a door
open ; she looked in, and saw grim emptiness. Another open
door ; and through that she saw a man lying dead with all his
garments on, his head lying athwart a spade handle, and an
earthenware cruse in his hand, as if he had fallen suddenly.

Romola felt horror taking possession of her. Was she in a
village of the unburied dead 1 She wanted to listen if there were
any faint sound, but the child cried out afresh when she ceased
to feed it, and the cry filled her ears. At last she saw a figure

GEORGE ELIOT.] THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN VILLAGE.

331

crawling slowly out of a house, and soon sinking back in a
sitting posture against the wall. She hastened towards the
figure ; it was a young woman in fevered anguish, and she, too,
held a pitcher in her hand. As Romola approached her she did
not start ; the one need was too absorbing for any other idea to
impress itself on her.

" Water ! get me water ! " she said, with a moaning utterance.

Romola stooped to take the pitcher, and said gently in her
ear, " You shall have water ; can you point towards the well ? "

The hand was lifted towards the more distant end of the little
street, and Romola set off at once with as much speed as she
could use under the difficulty of carrying the pitcher as well as
feeding the child. But the little one was getting more content as
the morsels of sweet pulp were repeated, and ceased to distress
her with its cry, so that she could give a less distracted attention
to the objects around her.

The well lay twenty yards or more beyond the end of the
street, and as Romola was approaching it her eyes were directed
to the opposite green slope immediately below the church.
High up, on a patch of grass between the trees, she had descried
a cow and a couple of goats, and she tried to trace a line of path
that would lead her close to that cheering sight, when once she
had done her errand to the well. Occupied in this way, she was
not aware that she was very near the well, and that some one
approaching it on the other side had fixed a pair of astonished
eyes upon her.

Romola certainly presented a sight which, at that moment and
in that place, could hardly have been seen without some pausing
and palpitation. With her gaze fixed intently on the distant
slope, the long lines of her thick gray garment giving a gliding
character to her rapid walk, her hair rolling backwards and
illuminated on the left side by the sun-rays, the little olive baby
on her right arm now looking out with jet-black eyes, she might
well startle that youth of fifteen, accustomed to swing the censei
in the presence of a Madonna less fair and marvellous than
this,

332 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GEORGE EUOT.

" She carries a pitcher in her hand — to fetch water for the sick.
It is the Holy Mother come to take care of the people who have
the pestilence."

It was a sight of awe : she would, perhaps, be angry with those
who fetched water for themselves only. The youth flung down
his vessel in terror, and Romola, aware now of some one near
her, saw the black and white figure fly as if for dear life towards
the slope she had just been contemplating. But remembering
the parched sufferer she half filled her pitcher quickly and
hastened back.

Entering the house to look for a small cup, she saw salt meat
and meal : there were no signs of want in the dwelling. With
nimble movements she seated baby on the ground, and lifted a
cup of water to the sufferer, who drank eagerly and then closed
her eyes and leaned her head backward, seeming to give herself
up to the sense of relief. Presently she opened her eyes, and,
looking at Romola, said languidly, —

" Who are you ? "

" I came over the sea," said Romola. " I only came this
morning. Are all the people dead in these houses?"

" I think they are all ill now — all that are not dead. My
father and my sister lie dead up stairs, and there is no one to
bury them ; and soon I shall die."

" Not so, I hope," said Romola. " I am come to take care of
you. I am used to the pestilence ; I am not afraid. But there
must be some left who are not ill. I saw a youth running to-
wards the mountain when I went to the well."

" I cannot tell. When the pestilence came, a great many
people went away, and drove off the cows and goats. Give me
more water ! "

Romola, suspecting that if she followed the direction of the
youth's flight, she should find some men and women who were
still healthy and able, determined to seek them out at once, that
she might at least win them to take care of the child, and leave
her free to come back and see how many living needed help, and
how many dead needed burial. She trusted to her powers of

GEORGE ELIOT.] THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN VILLAGE. 333

persuasion to conquer the aid of the timorous, when once she
knew what was to be done.

Promising the sick woman to conic back to her, she lifted the
dark bantling again, and set off towards the slope. She felt no
burthen of choice now, no longing for death. She was thinking
how she would go to the other sufferers, as she had gone to that
fevered woman.

But, with the child on her arm, it was not so easy to her as
usual to walk up a slope, and it seemed a long while before the
winding path took her near the cow and the goats. She was be-
ginning herself to feel faint from heat, hunger, and thirst, and as
she reached a double turning, she paused to consider whether she
would not wait near the cow, which some one was likely to come
and milk soon, rather than toil up to the church before she had
taken any rest. Raising her eyes to measure the steep distance,
she saw peeping between the boughs, not more than five yards
off, a broad round face, watching her attentively, and lower down
the black skirt of a priest's garment, and a hand grasping a
bucket. She stood mutely observing, and the face too, remained
motionless. Romola had often witnessed the overpowering i
of dread in cases of pestilence, and she was cautious.

Raising her voice in a tone of gentle pleading, she said, "I
came over the sea. I am hungry, and so is the child. Will you
not give us some milk?"

Romola had divined part of the truth, but she had not divined
that preoccupation of the priest's mind which charged her words
with a strange significance. Only a little while ago, the young
acolyte had brought word to the Padre that he had seen the
Holy Mother with the babe, fetching water for the sick : she was
as tall as the cypresses, and had a light about her head, and she
looked up at the church. The pierano* had not listened with
entire belief: he had been more than fifty years in the world
without having any vision of the Madonna, and he thought the
boy might have misinterpreted the unexpected appearance of a
villager. But he had been made uneasy, and before venturing
* Parish priest.

334 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [G-.ORGE ELIOT.

to come down and milk his cow, he repeated many aves. The
pierano's conscience tormented him a little : he trembled at the
pestilence, but he also trembled at the thought of the mild-faced
Mother, conscious that that Invisible Mercy might demand
something more of him than prayers and " Hails." In this state
of mind — unable to banish the image the boy had raised of the
Mother with the glory about her tending the sick — the pierano
had come down to milk his cow, and had suddenly caught sight
of Romola pausing at the parted way. Her pleading words, with
their strange refinement of tone and accent, instead of being
explanatory, had a preternatural sound for him. Yet he did not
quite believe he saw the Holy Mother: he was in a state of
alarmed hesitation. If anything miraculous were happening, he
felt there was no strong presumption that the miracle would be
in his favour. He dared not run away ; he dared not advance.

" Come down," said Romola, after a pause. " Do not fear.
Fear rather to deny food to the hungry when they ask you."

A moment after the boughs were parted, and the complete
figure of a thick-set priest, with a broad, harmless face, his black
frock much worn and soiled, stood, bucket in hand, looking at
her timidly, and still keeping aloof as he took the path towards
the cow in silence.

Romola followed him and watched him without speaking again,
as he seated himself against the tethered cow ; and when he had
nervously drawn some milk gave it to her in a brass cup he carried
with him in the bucket. As Romola put the cup to the lips of the
eager child, and afterwards drank some milk herself, the Padre
observed her from his wooden stool with a timidity that changed
its character a little. He recognised the Hebrew baby, he was
certain that he had a substantial woman before him ; but there
was still something strange and unaccountable in Romola's pre-
sence in this spot, and the Padre had a presentiment that things
were going to change with him. Moreover, that Hebrew baby
was terribly associated with the dread of pestilence.

Nevertheless, when Romola smiled at the little one sucking its
own milky lips, and stretched out the brass cup again, saying,

GEORGE ELIOT.] THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN VILLAGE. 335

" Give us more, good father," he obeyed less nervously than
before.

Romola, on her side, was not unobservant; and when the
second supply of milk had been drunk, she looked down at the
round-headed man, and said with mild decision,

"And now tell me, father, how this pestilence came, and why
you let your people die without the sacraments, and lie unburied.
For I am come over the sea to help those who are left alive — and
you, too, will help them now."

He told her the story of the pestilence ; and while he was tell-
ing it, the youth, who had fled before, had come peeping and
advancing gradually, till at last he stood and watched the scene
from behind a neighbouring bush.

Three families of Jews, twenty souls in all, had been put ashore
many weeks ago, some of them already ill of the pestilence. The
villagers, said the priest, had of course refused to give shelter to
the miscreants, otherwise than in a distant hovel, and under heaps
of straw. But when the strangers had died of the plague, and
some of the people had thrown the bodies into the sea, the sea
had brought them back again in a great storm, and everybody was
smitten with terror. A grave was dug, and the bodies were buried;
but then the pestilence attacked the Christians, and the greater
number of the villagers went away over the mountain, driving
away their few cattle, and carrying provisions. The priest had
not fled ; he had stayed and prayed for the people, and he had
prevailed on the youth Jacopo to stay with him ; but he confessed
that a mortal terror of the plague had taken hold of him, and he
had not dared to go down into the valley.

" You will fear no longer, father," said Romola, in a tone of
encouraging authority: "you will come down with me, and we
will see who is living, and we will look for the dead to bury them.
I have walked about for months where the pestilence was, and see,
I am strong. Jacopo will come with us," she added, motioning
to the peeping lad, who came slowly from behind his defensive
bush, as if invisible threads were dragging him.

" Come, Jacopo," said Romola again, smiling at him, " you will

336 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GEORGE ELIOT.

cary the child for me. See! your arms are strong, and I am
tired."

That was a dreadful proposal to Jacopo, and to the priest also ;
but they were both under a peculiar influence forcing them to
obey. The suspicion that Romola was a supernatural form was
dissipated, but their minds were filled instead with the more
effective sense that she was a human being whom God had sent
over the sea to command them.

" Now we will carry down the milk," said Romola, " and see if
any one wants it."

So they went altogether down the slope, and that morning the
sufferers saw help come to them in their despair. There were
hardly more than a score alive in the whole valley ; but all of
these were comforted, most were saved, and the dead were
buried.

In this way days, weeks, and months passed with Romola, till
the men were digging and sowing again, till the women smiled at
her as they carried their great vases on their head to the well, and
the Hebrew baby was a tottering, tumbling Christian, Benedetto
by name, having been baptized in the church on the mountain-
side. But by that time she herself was suffering from the fatigue
and languor that must come after a continuous strain on mind and
body. She had taken for her dwelling one of the houses aban- .
doned by their owners, standing a little aloof from the village \
street ; and here, on a thick heap of clean straw — a delicious bed \
for those who do not dream of down — she felt glad to lie still j
through most of the daylight hours, taken care of along with the I
little Benedetto by a woman whom the pestilence had widowed.

Every day the Padre and Jacopo and the small flock of surviv-
ing villagers paid their visit to this cottage to see the blessed
and to bring her of their best, as an offering — honey, fresh cakt
eggs, and polenta. It was a sight they could none of them foi
get, a sight they all told of in their old age — how the sweet ai
sainted lady, with her fair face, her golden hair, and her b
eyes that had a blessing in them, lay weary with her labours,
she had been sent over the sea to help them in their extremil

VARIOUS.] THE MOON. 337

and how the queer little black Benedetto used to crawl about the
straw by her side, and want everything that was brought to her,
and she always gave him a bit of what she took, and told them if
they loved her they must be good to Benedetto.

Many legends were afterwards told in that valley about the
blessed Lady who came over the sea, but they were legends by
which all who heard might know that in times gone by a woman
had done beautiful loving deeds there, rescuing those who were
ready to perish.

237.-%

VARIOUS.

WE select some of the passages of our poets which celebrate
the beauties of our glorious satellite. And first, the famous de-
scription of the "refulgent lamp of night" which Pope has
adapted from Homer : —

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ;
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head ;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies :
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

This is a magnificent passage ; but the noble simplicity of
Homer is better rendered in Chapman's version : —

As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind,

And stars shine clear : to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and the brows

Of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows ;

And even the lowly valleys joy to glitter in their sight,

When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light,

And all the signs in heaven are seen that glad the shepherd's heart.

VOL. III. Y

338 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

The spirit of ancient song was never more beautifully seized
upon than in Jonson's exquisite Hymn to Cynthia : —

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Heaven to clear when day did close :
Now the sun is laid to sleep, Bless us then with wished sight,

Seated in thy silver chair, Goddess, excellently bright.

State in wonted manner keep :

Hesperus entreats thy light, La? th? bow of Pearl aPart»

Goddess, excellently bright. And thy crystal shininS 1uiver »

Give unto the flying hart

Earth, let not thy envious shade Space to breathe, how short soever :

Dare itself to interpose ; Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Cynthia's shining orb was made Goddess, excellently bright.

Sidney's sonnet is full of conceits, as the sonnet poetry of his
day was generally; but the opening lines are most harmoni-
ous:—

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies !

How silently, and with how wan a face !

What ! may it be, that e'en in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ;

I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be ?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ?

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ?

Keats, who of all our recent poets was the most imbued with a
conception of the poetic beauties of the Greek mythology, has a
passage full of antique grace : —

By the fend

'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,

Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair

Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest.

When thy cold breath is misting in the west,

She unobserved steals unto her throne,

And there she sits most meek and most alone ;

As if she had not pomp subservient ;

As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent

VARIOUS.] THE MOON. 339

Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ;
As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart,
Waiting for silver-footed messages.
O Moon ! the oldest shadows 'mongst oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in :
O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine.
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee : thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house. — The mighty deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea !

0 Moon ! far spooming Ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load.

Coleridge sees in the shifting aspects of the Moon emblems of
human griefs and joys : —

Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night !
Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail !

1 watch thy gliding, while with watery light
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ;
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high ;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky ;
Ah, such is Hope : as changeful and as fair I
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight,

Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair :
But soon, emerging in her radiant might,
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care.
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

With the glories of the Moon are associated the " company of
stars." Leyden's Ode to the Evening Star is full of tenderness : —

340 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

How sweet thy modest light to view,

Fair Star ! to love and lovers dear ;
While trembling on the falling dew,

Like beauty shining through the tear ;
Or hanging o'er that mirror stream

To mark each image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam

To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though blazing o'er the arch of night,

The moon thy timid beams outshine,
As far as thine each starry night —

Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft enchanting hours,

When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flowers

That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that murmuring, bland
. As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand

In love's delicious ecstasy.
Fair Star ! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain !
Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love —

But sweeter to be loved again.

But there is something higher in the contemplation of the starry
heavens than thoughts "to love and lovers dear." Shakspere
has seized upon the grandest idea with which we can survey the
firmament — an idea which another great poet has in some degree
echoed : —

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.

There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins.

Such harmony is in immortal souls ;

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. SHAKSPERE.

In deep of night, when drowsiness
Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens' harmony,

WIELAND.] THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE USEFUL, 341

That sit upon the nine infolded spheres,

And sing to those that hold the vital shears,

And turn the adamantine spindle round,

On which the fate of gods and men is wound.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,

To lull the daughter of Necessity,

And keep unsteady Nature to her law,

And the low world in measured motion draw

After the heavenly tune, which none can hear

Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear. MlLTON.

238.-a;|fje fStBjtfifnl anir %

WIELAND.

[CHRISTOPH MARTIN WIELAND, a most voluminous German writer, was
born in Suabia in 1733, and died in 1813. During this long life his labours
were unremitting, and were chiefly directed to the establishment of a native
German literature, and to familiarising his countrymen with the best models of
composition. He was the first translator of Shakspere, and he translated
many of the great writers of antiquity. In the writings of M. de Balzac, a now
forgotten French author of the seventeenth century, more remarkable for his
platitudes, conceits, and witticisms, than for anything else, there is a passage
in which the German critic and poet found much pleasure, "in spite of its
epigrammatic turn, on account of the simplicity and obvious truth of the closing
image in which the thought is clothed." " We require," says Balzac, " books
for recreation and delight, as well as for instruction and business. Those are
pleasant, these useful, and the human mind needs both. The canonical law
and Justinian's code are held in honour, and are paramount in the universities ;
but we do not on that account banish Homer and Virgil. We should cultivate
the olive and the vine, without eradicating the rose and the myrtle." "I
nevertheless," says Wieland, "find in this passage two things on which to re-
mark." He then proceeds to a criticism on " The Beautiful and the Useful,"
which is the subject of the following translation.]

Balzac the pedant, who views the favourite of the Muses and
their works with turned-up nose, assumes too much when he
reckons Homer and Virgil merely among the pleasing authors.
Wiser antiquity thought very differently ; and Horace maintains,
with good reason, that more practical philosophy is to be learned
from Homer than from Grantor and Chrysippus.*

* GRANTOR, a philosopher of Soli, a pupil of Plato : he was much cele-

342 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WIELAKD.

It next appears to me, that generally it shows more of a traffick-
ing than a philosophical mode of thinking, when we place the
agreeable and the useful in opposition, and look at one, as com-
pared with the other, with a sort of contempt.

Supposing that the case assumed is where the agreeable offends
against the laws of a healthy moral feeling ; yet even then the
useful, in so far as opposed to the agreeable and the beautiful, is
enjoyed merely in common with the lowest animals ; and if we
love and prize what is useful to us in this sense, we do nothing
more than what the ox and the ass do also. The worth of this
usefulness depends on its being more or less necessary. So far
as a thing is necessary for the maintenance of the human species
and civil society, so far it is certainly something good ; but not,
therefore, something excellent. We, therefore, desire the useful,
not for itself, but only on account of the advantages we draw from
it. The beautiful, on the contrary, we love from an inward supe-
riority of our nature over the merely animal nature ; for among all
animals, man alone is gifted with a perception of order, beauty,
and grace. Hence it comes that he is so much the more perfect,
so much the more a man, the more extended and deep-seated is
his love for the beautiful, and the more finely and certainly he is
enabled by his feelings to discriminate the different degrees and
sorts of beauty. Therefore, it is also that the perception of the
beautiful, in art as well as in manners and morals, distinguishes
the social, developed and civilised man from the savage and the
barbarian ; indeed, all art, without exception, and science itself,
owe their worth almost entirely to this love of the beautiful and
the perfect implanted in the breast of man. They would now be
immeasurably below the height to which they have ascended in
Europe, if they had been confined within the narrow boundaries
of the necessary and the useful, in the common sense of the
words.

This restriction was what Socrates recommended ; and if he

brated for the purity of his moral doctrine. CHRYSIPPTJS, a Stoic philosopher
of Soli. He wrote several hundred volumes, of which at least three hundred
were on logical subjects.

WIELAND.] THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE USEFUL, 343

was ever wrong in any case it was surely in this. Kepler and
Newton would never have discovered the laws of the universe —
the most beautiful system ever produced by thought from the
human mind — if they, following his precept, had confined
geometry merely to the measuring of fields, and astronomy to
the merely necessary use of land and sea travellers and almanac-
makers.

Socrates exhorts the painter and the sculptor to unite the
beautiful and the agreeable with the useful ; as he encourages the
pantomimic dancer to ennoble the pleasure that his heart may
be capable of giving, and to delight the heart at the same time
with the senses. According to the same principle, he must
desire every labourer who occupies himself about something
necessary, to unite the useful as much as possible with the beauti-
ful. But to allow no value for beauty, except where it is useful
is a confusion of ideas.

Beauty and grace are undoubtedly united by nature itself with
the useful : but they are not, therefore, desirable because they are
useful ; but because from the nature of man, he enjoys a pure
pleasure in their contemplation — a pleasure precisely similar to
that which the contemplation of virtue gives ; a necessity as im-
perative for man as a reasonable being, as food, clothing, and a
habitation are for him as an animal.

I say for him as an animal, because he has much in common
with all or most other animals. But neither these animal wants,
nor the capability and desire to satisfy them, make him a man.
While he procures his food, builds himself a nest, takes to himself
a mate, leads his young, fights with any other who would deprive
him of his food or take possession of his nest ! in all this he acts,
so far as it is merely corporeal, as an animal. Merely through
the skill and manner in which, as a man, he performs all these
animal-like acts, (where not reduced to and retained in an animal
state by external compulsory causes) does he distinguish and
elevate himself above all other animals, and evince his human
nature. For this animal that calls itself man, and this only, has
an inborn feeling for beauty and order, has a heart disposed to

344 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WIELAND.

social communication, to compassion and sympathy, and to art
infinite variety of pleasing and beautiful feelings ; has a strong
tendency to imitate and create, and labours incessantly to improve
whatever it has invented or formed.

All these peculiarities together separate him essentially from
the other animals, render him their lord and master, place earth
and ocean in his power, and lead him step by step so high,
through the nearly illimitable elevation of his capacity for art, that
he is at length in a condition to remodel nature itself, and from
the materials it affords him to create a new, and, for his peculiar
purpose, a more perfectly adjusted world.

The first thing in which man displays this superiority is in the
refining and elevating all the wants, instincts, and functions which
he has in common with the animal. The time which this may
require does not signify. It is sufficient that he at length suc-
ceeds ; that he no longer depends on mere chance for his main-
tenance ; and the increased security of more abundant and better
food leaves him leisure to think of improving the remaining re-
quirements of his life. He invents one art after another • each
one increases the security or the pleasure of his existence ; and
he thus ascends unceasingly from the absolutely necessary to the
convenient, from the convenient to the beautiful.

The natural society in which he is born, united to the necessity
of guarding against the ill consequences of a wide dispersion of
the human race, produces at length civil establishments and social
modes of life.

But even then, he has scarcely provided for what is absolutely
necessary for the means of inward and outward security, than we
see him occupied in a thousand ways in adorning his new condi-
tion. Little villages are imperceptibly transformed into great
cities, the abodes of the arts and of commerce, and the points of
union between the various nations of the earth. Man extends
himself on all sides, and in every sense navigation and trade
increase his social relations and occupations, and they multiply
the wants and goods of life. Riches and pleasure refine every
art, of which necessity and want were the parents. Leisure,

WISLAND.] THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE USEFUL. 345

love of fame, and public encouragement promote the growth
of the sciences; which, by the light they shed upon every object
of human life, become again rich sources of new advantages and
enjoyments.

But in the same degree that man adorns and improves his
external condition are his perceptions developed also for moral
beauty. He renounces the rough and inhuman customs of the
savage, learns to abhor all violent conduct towards his fellows,
and accustoms himself to the rules of justice and equity. The
various relations of the social state form and fix the notions of re-
spectability and civility ; and the desire of making himself agree-
able to others, of obtaining their esteem, teaches him to suppress
his passions, to conceal his faults, to assume his best appearance,
and always to act in the most becoming manner. In a word, his
manner improves with his condition.

Through all these steps he elevates himself at length to the
highest degree of perfection of which the mind is capable in the
present life, to an enlarged idea of the whole of which he is a
part, to the ideal of the beautiful and the good, to wisdom and
virtue, and to the adoration of the inscrutable First Cause, the
universal Father of all, to recognise and perform whose laws is at
the same time his greatest privilege, his first duty, and his purest
pleasure.

All this we may at once call the advancement of human nature.
And now may every one answer for himself the question — Would
man have made that advance if the inborn feeling for the beau-
tiful and the becoming had remained in him inactive ? Take it
away, and all the effects of his formative power, all the memorials
of his greatness, all the riches of nature and art in the possession
of which he has placed himself, vanish ; he sinks back into the
merely animal rank of the stupid and insensible natives of Aus-
tralia, and with him nature also sinks into barbarism and chaotic
deformity.

What are all the steps by which man advances himself by de-
grees towards perfection but refinements? — refinements in his
wants, modes of living, his clothing, dwelling, furniture? — re-

346 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GURNALL.

finements of his mind and -his heart, of his sentiments and his
passions : of his language, morals, customs, and pleasures ?

What an advance from the first hut to a palace of Palladio's !
— from the canoe of a Carribbean to a ship of the line ! — from
the three rude idols, as the Boeotians in the olden times repre-
sented their protecting goddesses, to the Graces of Praxiteles !
— from a village of the Hottentots or wild Indians, to a city like
London! — from the ornaments of a female of New Zealand,
to the splendid dress of a Sultana! — from the language of a
native of Tahiti to that of a Homer, a Virgil, a Tasso, a Milton,
or a Voltaire !

Through what innumerable degrees of refinement must man and
his works have proceeded, before they had placed this almost im-
measurable distance behind them !

The love of embellishment and refinement, and the dissatisfaction
with a lower degree as soon as a higher has been recognised, are
the only true and most simple motives by which man has advanced
to what we see him. Every people who have become civilised
are a proof of this principle ; and if any are found who, without
peculiar physical or moral hindrances, continue in the same state
of unimprovability, or betray a complete want of impulse to im-
provement, we must consider them rather as a sort of human
animals than as actually men of our race and species.

239.—

GURNALL.

[WILLIAM GURNALL was born about 1617. He was educated at Emanuel
College, Cambridge, of which college he became a Fellow. He was presented
to the living of Lavenham, Suffolk ; which he retained, although of the Pres-
byterian persuasion, by conceding to the Act of Uniformity in 1662. He died
in 1679. The work from which our extract is given is a folio, entitled, " The
Christian in Complete Armour ; " and was once amongst the most popular of
theological works. It is remarkable for having very little of a polemical nature
in an age of controversy.]

GUKNALL.] EARTHLY THINGS. 347

First. For earthly things, it is not necessary that thou hast
them ; that is necessary which cannot be supplied per vicarium,
with somewhat besides itself. Now, there is no such earthly en-
joyment, but may be supplied as to make its room more desirable
than its company. In heaven there shall be light and no sun, a
rich feast and yet no meat, glorious robes and yet no clothes, there
shall want nothing, and yet none of this worldly glory be found
there ; yea, even while we are here, they may be recompensed ;
thou mayest be under infirmities of body, and yet better than if
thou hadst health. The inhabitant shall not say, I am sick : the
people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity, (Isa. xxxiii.
24.) Thou mayest miss of worldly honour, and obtain with those
worthies of Christ (Heb. i. i.) a good report by faith, and that is
a name better than of the great ones of the earth ; thou mayest
be poor in the world, and yet rich in grace ; and godliness with
content is great gain. In a word, if thou partest with thy temporal
life, and findest an eternal, what dost thou lose by thy change 1
but heaven and heavenly things are such as cannot be recom-
pensed with any other. •

Secondly. Earthly things are such as it is a great uncertainty
whether with all our labour we can have them or not. The world,
though so many thousand years old, hath not learned the merchant
such a method of trading, as that from it he may infallibly con-
clude he shall at last get an estate by his trade : nor the courtier
such rules of comporting himself to the humour of his prince, as
to assure him he shall rise. They are but few that carry away the
prize in the world's lottery, the greater number have only their
labour for their pains, and a sorrowful remembrance left them of
their egregious folly, to be led such a wild-goose-chase after that
which hath deceived them at last. But now, for heaven and the
things of heaven, there is such a clear and certain rule laid down,
that if we will but take the counsel of the Word, we can neither
mistake the way, nor in that way miscarry of the end. As many
as walk by this rule, peace be upon them, and the whole Israel of God.
There are some indeed who run, and yet obtain not this prize,
that seek and find not, knock and find the door shut upon them ;

348 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GURNALL.

but it is because they do it either not in the right manner, or in
the right season. Some would have heaven, but if God save them
He must save their sins also, for they do not mean to part with
them ; and how heaven can hold God and such together, judge
you. As they come in at one door, Christ and all those holy
spirits with Him would run out at the other. Ungrateful wretches
that will not come to this glorious feast, unless they may bring
that with them which would disturb the joy of that blissful state,
and offend all the guests that sit at the table with them, yea,
drive God out of His own mansion-house ; a second sort would
have heaven, but like him in Ruth, (ch. iv., v. 2, 3, 4,) who had a
mind to his kinsman Elimelech's land, and would have paid for
the purchase, but he liked not to have it by marrying Ruth, and
so missed of it ; some seem very forward to have heaven and
salvation, if their own righteousness could procure the same, (all
the good they do, and duties they perform, they lay up for this
purchase,) but at last perish because they close not with Christ,
and take not heaven in His right. A third sort are content to
have it by Christ, but their desires are so impotent and listless,
that they put them upon no vigorous use of means to obtain Him,
and so (like the sluggard) they starve, because they will not pull
their hands out of their bosom of sloth to reach their food that is
before them ; for the world they have metal enough, and too
much ; they trudge far and near for that, and when they have run
themselves out of breath can stand and pant after the dust of the
earth, as the prophet phraseth it, (Amos ii. 7.) But for Christ, and
obtaining interest in Him, oh how key-cold are they ! there is a
kind of cramp invades all the powers of their souls when they
should pray,, hear, examine their hearts, draw out their affections
in hungerings and thirstings after His grace and spirit. 'Tis
strange to see how they who even now went full swoop to the
world, are suddenly becalmed, not a breath of wind stirring to
any purpose in their souls after these things ; and is it any wonder
that Christ and heaven should be denied to them that have no
more mind to them 1 Lastly, some have zeal enough to have
Christ and heaven, but it is when the Master of the house is risen,

GURNALL.] EARTHLY THINGS. 349

and hath shut to the door ; and truly then they may stand long
enough rapping before any come to let them in. There is no
gospel preached in another world ; but as for thee, poor soul, who
art persuaded to renounce thy lust, throw away the conceit of thy
own righteousness, that thou mayest run with more speed to Christ,
and art so possessed with the excellency of Christ thy own pre-
sent need of Him, and salvation by Him that thou pantest after
Him more than life itself ; in God's name go on and speed, be of
good comfort, He calls thee by name to come unto Him, that thou
mayest have rest for thy soul. There is an office in the Word
where thou mayest have thy soul and its eternal happiness insured
to thee. Those that come to Him, as He will Himself in no wise
cast away, so He will not suffer any other to pluck them away.
This day (saith Christ to Zaccheus) is salvation come to thy house,
(Luke xix. 9.) Salvation comes to thee (poor soul) that openest
thy heart to receive Christ ; thou hast eternal life already, as sure
as if thou wert a glorified saint now walking in that heavenly city.
Oh, sirs, if there were a free trade proclaimed to the Indies, enough
gold for all that went, and a certainty of making a safe voyage,
who would stay at home 1 But, alas I this can never be had : all
this, and infinitely more, may be said for heaven ; and yet how
few leave their uncertain hopes of the world to. trade for it 1
What account can be given for this, but the desperate atheism of
men's hearts 1 They are not yet fully persuaded whether the
Scripture speaks true or not, whether they may rely upon the dis-
covery that God makes in His Word of this new-found land, and
those minds of spirituals there to be had as certain. God opens
the eyes of the unbelieving world, (as the prophet's servants,) that
they may see these things to be realities, not fictions ; 'tis faith
only that gives a being to these things in our hearts. By faith
Moses saw Him that was invisible.

Thirdly. Earthly things when we have them we are not sure of
them ; like birds they hop up and down, now on this hedge and
anon upon that, none can call them his own : rich to-day and
poor to-morrow ; in health when we lie down, and arrested with
pangs of death before midnight : joyful parents, one while solac-

350 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GURNALL.

ing ourselves with the hopes of our budding posterity, and may be,
ere long, knocks one of Job's messengers at our door to tell us
they are all dead : now in honour, but who knows whether we
shall not live to see that buried in scorn and reproach ? The
Scripture compares the multitude of people to waters ; the great
ones of the world sit upon these waters ; as the ship floats upon
the waves, so do their honours upon the breath and favour of the
multitude ; and how long is he like to sit that is carried upon
a wave 1 One while they are mounted up to heaven, (as David
speaks of the ship,) and then down again they fall into the deep.
Unhappy man he that hath no surer portion than what this
variable world will offer him ! The time of mourning for the
departure of all earthly enjoyments is at hand ; we shall see them,
as Eglon's servants did their Lord, fallen down dead before us,
and weep because they are not. What folly then is it to dandle
this vain world in our affections, (whose joy, like the child's
laughter on the mother's knee, is sure to end in a cry at last,) and
neglect heaven and heavenly things, which endure for ever? I
remember Dives stirring up his pillow, and composing himself to
rest, how he was called up with the tidings of death before he
was warm in his bed of ease, and laid with sorrow on another,
which God had made for him in flames, from whence we hear him
roaring in the anguish of his conscience. Oh, soul ! couldest
thou but get an interest in the heavenly things we are speaking
of, these would not thus slip from under thee j heaven is a king-
dom that cannot be shaken, Christ an abiding portion, His graces
and comforts sure waters that fail not, but spring up into eternal
life.

Fourthly., Earthly things are empty and unsatisfying. We
may have too much, but never enough of them, they oft breed
loathing, but never content ; and indeed how should they, being
so disproportionate to the vast desires of these immortal spirits
that dwell in our bosoms ? A spirit hath not flesh and bones,
neither can it be fed with such ; and what hath the world, but a
few bones covered over with some fleshly delights to give it?
The less is blessed of the greater, not the greater of the less.

GURNALL.] EAR THL Y THINGS. 35!

These things, therefore, being so far inferior to the nature of man,
he must look higher if he will be blessed, even to God himself,
who is the Father of Spirits. God intended these things for our
use, not enjoyment ; and what folly is it to think we can squeeze
that from them which God never put in them ? They are breasts
that, moderately drawn, yield good milk, sweet, refreshing ; but
wring them too hard, and you will suck nothing but wind or
blood from them. We lose what they have, by expecting to find
what they have not : none find less sweetness and more dissatis-
faction in these things, than those who strive most to please
themselves with them. The cream of the creature floats a-top ;
and he that is not content to fleet it, but thinks by drinking a
deeper draught to find yet more, goes further to speed worse,
being sure by the disappointment he shall meet to pierce himself
through with many sorrows. But all these fears might happily
be escaped, if thou wouldest turn thy back on the creature and
face about for heaven ; labour to get Christ, and through Him
hopes of heaven, and thou takest the right road to content ; thou
shalt see it before thee, and enjoy the prospect of it as thou
goest, yea, find that at every step thou drawest nearer and nearer
to it.

Earthly things are like some trash which do not only not
nourish, but take away the appetite from that which would ;
heaven and heavenly things are not relished by a soul vitiated
with these. Manna, though for deliciousness called angels' food,
was yet but light bread to an Egyptian palate. But these spiritual
things depend not on thy opinion, O man ! whoever thou art, (as
earthly things in a great measure do,) that the value of them
should rise or fall as the world's exchange doth, and as vain man
is pleased to rate them : think gold dirt, and it is so, for all the
royal stamp on it; count the swelling titles of worldly honour
(that proud dust so brags in) vanity, and they are such ; but have
base thoughts of Christ, and he is not the worse : slight heaven
as much as you will, it will be heaven still : and when thou comest
so far to thy wits with the prodigal, as to know which is best fare,
husks or bread j where 's best living, among hogs in the field, or

352

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

in thy father's house ; then thou wilt know how to judge of these
heavenly things better • till then go and make the best market
thou canst of the world, but look not to find this pearl of price,
true satisfaction to thy soul, in any of the creature shops ; and,
were it not better to take it when thou mayest have it, than after
thou hast wearied thyself in vain in following the creature, to
come back with shame, and, may be, miss of it here also, because
thou wouldest not have it when it was offered ?

240.—

i*ir 0f

ANONYMOUS.

THE ballad of the " Heir of Linne " has in its numbers the
sound of the " north countree," and is perhaps of Scottish
descent, though found in Percy's "Southern Ballad-Book."
The hero belongs, however, by all theories, to the other side of
the Tweed : he is called, too, a lord of Scotland in the rhyme :
not as a lord of parliament, but a laird whose title went with his
estate. The old thrifty Laird of Linne died, and left his all to an
unthrifty son who loved wine and mirth : —

ANONYMOUS.] THE HEIR OF LINNE. 353

To spend the day with merry cheer, To ride, to run, to rant, to roar,

To drink and revel every night; To always spend and never spare;

To card and dice from eve till morn, I wot an' it were the king himself,

It was, I ween, hii? heart's delight. Of gold and fee he mot be bare.

And bare he soon became ; when all his gold was spent and
gone, he bethought him of his father's steward, John of the Scales,
now a wealthy man, and to him he went for help : he was re-
ceived with courtesy : —

Now welcome, welcome, Lord of My gold is gone, my money is spent,

Linne, My land now take it unto thee ;

Let nought disturb thy merry cheer; Give me the gold, good John o' the

If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad, Scales,

Good store of gold I'll give thee And thine for aye my land shall

here. be.

John o' the Scales drew out the agreement as tight as a glove,
gave earnest-money that all might be according to custom as well
as law, and then reckoned up the purchase-money, which would
not have bought more than a third of the land in an honest and
open market —

He told him the gold upon the board, Thus hath he sold his land so broad,
He was right glad his land to win ; Both hill and holt, and moor and fen,

The gold is thine, the land is mine, All but a poor and lonesome lodge,
And now I'll be the Lord of Linne. That stood far in a lonely glen.

This lonesome lodge was preserved in obedience to a vow
made to his father, who told him on his death-bed that when he
had spent all his money and all his land, and all the world
frowned on him for a spendthrift, he would find in that lonely
dwelling-place a sure and faithful friend. Who this friend in
need was, the young Lord of Linne never inquired when he made
the reservation ; but, taking up the gold of John of the Scales,
and calling on his companions, drank, and diced, and spared
not: —

They routed, drank, and merry made, He had never a penny left in his purse,

Till all his gold it waxed thin ; Never a penny left but three ;

And then his friends they slunk away, And one was brass, another was lead,

And left the unthrifty Heir of Linne. And the third was of white monie.

VOL. III. Z

354 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

" Well," but said the Heir of Linne, " I have many friends,
trusty ones who ate of the fat and drank of the strong at my
table ; so let me go and borrow a little from each, in turns,
that my pockets may never be empty : "—

But one I wis was not at home, Now well-a-day, said the Heir of

Another had paid his gold away, Linne,

Another call'd him a thriftless loon, Now well-a-day, and woe is me ;

And sharply bade him wend his For when I had my lands so broad,
way. On me they lived right merrilie.

The Heir of Linne stood and mused a little now on his ruined
fortunes. " It were a burning shame," thought he, " to beg my
bread like a common mendicant; to rob or steal would be
sinful, and my limbs are unused to work ; besides labour is un-
becoming in a gentleman ; let me go therefore to that little lone-
some lodge of which my father spoke, and see what it will do for
me, since there is no help elsewhere : " —

Away then hied the Heir of Linne, The little window, dim and dark,
O 'er hill and holt, and moor and Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew;
fen ; No shimmering sun here ever shone,

Until he came to that lonesome lodge No halesome breeze here ever blew.
That stood so low in a lonely glen.

No chair, no table, mot he spy,
He looked up, he looked down, No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed ;

In hope some comfort for to win ; He saw but a rope with a running
But bare and lothely were the walls — noose,

Here 's sorry cheer, quo' the Heir Which dangling hung above his
of Linne. head.

" Ah ! this is the friend my father meant," said he, regarding
the vacant noose with an eye which seemed to say welcome;
while, as if the hint of the rope was not sufficient for a desperate
man, a few plain broad letters told him, since he had brought
himself to poverty and ruin, to try the trusty cord, and so end all
his sorrows : —

Sorely shent with this sharp rebuke, Never a word spake the Heir of Linne,

Sorely shent was the heir of Linne : Never a word he spake but three ;

His heart, I wis, was nigh to brast, This is a trusty friend indeed,

With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. And is right welcome unto me.

ANONYMOUS.] THE HEIR OF LINNE.

355

He said no more, but, putting the cord round liis neck, gave a
spring into the air ; but, instead of the death which he expected,
the ceiling to which the rope was fixed gave way : he fell to the
floor, and on recovering was surprised to see a key attached to
the cord, with an inscription which told him where to find two
chests full of gold and a chest full of silver, containing a sum
more than sufficient to set him free and redeem his lands ; with
an admonition to amend his life, lest the rope should be his end.
" I here vow to God'," exclaimed the Heir of Linne, " that my
father's words shall be my guide and rule in future, else may the
cord finish all ! " He secured the money, turned his thoughts on
his estates, and hastened to the house of Linne, resolved to be
wily as well as prudent, for he knew the character of the new pro-
prietor. With John of the Scales it happened to be a day of
feasting and mirth : at one end of a table covered with dainties,
amid which the wine was not forgotten, sat John, at the other his
wife, swollen with newly-acquired importance; while neighbour-
ing lairds all in a row made up the gladsome company ; —

There John himself sat at the board Away, away, thou thriftless loon,

head, Away, away, this may not be :

Because now Lord of Linne was he ; For Christ's curse on my head, he

I pray thee, he said, good John o' the said,

Scales, If ever I trust thee one penny.
One forty pence for to lend me.

This was probably what the Heir of Linne wished, as well as
expected. Woman in the hour of need or of misery is said to be
merciful and compassionate : so he turned to the new Lady of
Linne, saying, "Madam, bestow alms on me for the sake of
sweet Saint Charity." " Begone ! " exclaimed this imperious
madam j " I swear thou shalt have no alms from my hand —
were it to hang spendthrifts and fools, we would certainly begin
with thee : " —

Then up bespoke a good fellow, Said, Turn again, thou Heir of Linne,

Who sat at John o' the Scales's Some time thou wast a well good

board; lord.

356 HA LF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

Some time a good fellow thou hast And ever, I pray thee, John o' the

been, Scales,

And sparedst not thy gold and fee: To let him sit in thy companie;

Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, For well I wot thou hadst his land,

And other forty if need be. And^i good bargain it was to thee.

" A good bargain ! " exclaimed John of the Scales, in wrath ;
" you know little about bargains, else you would not talk so :
curses on my head, say I, if I was not a loser by the bargain."

And here I proffer thee, Heir of That thou shalt have it cheaper back

Linne, By a hundred marks than I had it of

Before these lords so fair and free, thee.

" I take you all witnesses, gentlemen," said the Heir of Linne,
casting him, as he spoke, a god's penny for earnest-money ; " and
here, good John o' the Scales, is the gold." All present stared,
for no one expected such an event. He proceeded to act upon
the purchase,—

And he puli'd forth three bags of The gold is thine, the land is mine,

gold, And now I'm again the Lord of

And laid them down upon the Linne.

board ;

All woe-begone sat John o' the Scales, Now well-a-day, said Joan o' the
So shent he could say never a word. Scales,

Now well-a-day, and woe's my life,

He told him forth the good red gold, Yestreen I was my Lady of Linne ;
He told it forth wi' mickle din; Now I'm but John o' the Scales's

wife.

John himself, it would seem, remained silent : the fine edifice
which he had reared was pulled about his ears, and he was buried
in the rubbish. The Heir of Linne, addressing the guest who
offered him the forty pence, made him the keeper of the "wild
deer and the tame " throughout all his forests, and, turning to John
o' the Scales, as that worthy rose to be gone, said, " Farewell now
and for ever ; and may my father's curse fall on me if I bring my
inheritance into jeopardy again ! " The wisest of men may be
confirmed in their own resolutions, and the most thriftless may
be mended by the precept and example exhibited in this fine old
ballad.

SOUTHEY. THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 357

241.— fc&t gsttle 0f % pit.

SOUTHEY.

[ROBERT SOUTHEY, one of the most voluminous writers in our language,
was born at Bristol in 1774. He died at Keswick in 1843. He was educated
at Westminster, and at Balliol College, Oxford. Of an enthusiastic tempera-
ment, he had the misfortune with the strictest honesty of purpose and with
undoubted sincerity, to commence life with extreme democratic principles, and,
after many ebullitions of wild notions of social improvement, to pass into one
of the most stanch and somewhat intolerant supporters of all existing institu-
tions, defective as they might be. But he has left many writings that are
wholly undeformed by either class of extreme opinions. As a poet he must
be assigned a second rank ; but, as a prose writer, few have exceeded him in
purity and clearness of style. Mr Southey was appointed Poet-Laureate in
1813, and received the degree of LI/.D. from the University of Oxford in
1821.]

The French fleet arrived at Alexandria on the ist of July, and
Brueys, not being able to enter the port, which time and neglect
had ruined, moored the ships in Aboukir Bay, in a strong and
compact line of battle ; the headmost vessel, according to his
own account, being as close as possible to a shoal on the north-
west, and the rest of the fleet forming a kind of curve along the
line of deep water, so as not to be turned by any means in the
south-west.

The advantage of numbers, both in ships, guns, and men, was
in favour of the French. They had thirteen ships of the line and
four frigates, carrying 1196 guns and 11,230 men. The English
had the same number of ships of the line, and one fifty-gun
ship, carrying 1012 guns, and 8068 men. The English ships
were all seventy-fours : the French had three eighty-gun ships,
and one three-decker of one hundred and twenty.

During the whole pursuit it had been Nelson's practice, when-
ever circumstances would permit, to have his captains on board
the Vanguard, and explain to them his own ideas of the different
and best modes of attack, and such plans as he proposed to
execute on falling in with the enemy, whatever their situation
might be. There is no possible position, it is said, which he

358 HA LF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [SOUTHEY.

did not take into consideration. His officers were thus fully
acquainted with his principles of tactics ; and such was his con-
fidence in their abilities, that the only thing determined upon, in
case they should find the French at anchor, was for the ships to
form as most convenient for their mutuarsupport, and to anchor
by the stern. " First gain your victory," he said, " and then
make the best use of it you can." The moment he perceived
the position of the French, that intuitive genius with which
Nelson was endowed displayed itself: and it instantly struck
him, that where there was room for an enemy's ship to swing
there was room for one of ours to anchor. The plan which he
intended to pursue, therefore, was to keep entirely on the outer
side of the French line, and station his ships, as far as he was
able, one on the outer bow and another on the outer quarter of
each of the enemy's. Captain Berry, when he comprehended the
scope of the design, exclaimed with transport, " If we succeed,
what will the world say ? " " There is no if in the case," replied
the admiral j " that we shall succeed is certain — who may live to
tell the story is a very different question."

As the squadron advanced, they were assailed by a shower of
shot and shell from the batteries on the island, and the enemy
opened a steady fire from the starboard side of their whole line,
within half gunshot distance, full into the bov/s of our van ships.
It was received in silence ; the men on board every ship were
employed aloft in furling sails, and below in tending the braces,
and making ready for anchoring ; — a miserable sight for the
French, who, with all their skill and all their courage, and all
their advantages of number and situation, were upon that element
on which, when the hour of trial comes, a Frenchman has no
hope. Admiral Brueys was a brave and able man ; yet the
indelible character of his country broke out in one of his letters,
wherein he delivered it as his private opinion that the English
had missed him, because, not being superior in force, they did
not think it prudent to try their strength with him. The moment
was now come in which he was to be undeceived.

A French brig was instructed to decoy the English, by

SOUTHEY.] THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 359

manoeuvring so as to tempt them towards a shoal lying off the
island of Beguieres ; but Nelson either knew the danger, or
suspected some deceit, and the lure was unsuccessful. Captain
Foley led the way in the Goliath, outsailing the Zealous, which
for some minutes disputed this post of honour with him. He
had long conceived that, if the enemy were moored in line of
battle in with the land, the best plan of attack would be to lead
between them and the shore, because the French guns on that
side were not likely to be manned, nor even ready for action.
Intending, therefore, to fix himself on the inner bow of the
Guerrier, he kept as near the edge of the bank as the depth of
water would admit ; but his anchor hung, and having opened
his fire, he drifted to the second ship, the Conqu&rant, before it
was cleared, then anchored by the stern, inside of her, and in ten
minutes shot away her masts. Hood, in the Zealous, perceiving
this, took the station which the Goliath intended to have occu-
pied, and totally disabled the Guerrier in twelve minutes. The
third ship which doubled the enemy's van was the Orion, Sir J.
Saumarez ; she passed to windward of the Zealous, and opened"
her larboard guns as long as they bore on the Guerrier / then,
passing inside the Goliath, sunk a frigate which annoyed her,
hauled toward the French line, and, anchoring inside between
the fifth and sixth ships from the Guerrier, took her station on
the larboard bow of the Franklin and the quarter of the Peuple
Souverain, receiving and returning the fire of both. The sun was
now nearly down. The Audacious, Captain Gould, pouring a
heavy fire into the Guerrier and the Conquerant, fixed herself on
the larboard bow of the latter, and when that ship struck, passed
on to the Peuple Souverain. The Theseus, Captain Miller,
followed, brought down the Guerrier's remaining main and mizen
masts, then anchored inside the Spartiate, the third in the French
line.

While these advanced ships doubled the French line, the
Vanguard was the first that anchored on the outer side of the
enemy, within half-pistol shot of their third ship, the Spartiate.
Nelson had six colours flying in different parts of the rigging,

360 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SOUTHEY.

lest they should be shot away — that they should be struck, no
British admiral considers as a possibility. He veered half a
cable, and instantly opened a tremendous fire, under cover of
which the other four ships of his division, the Minotaur, Bellero-
phon, Defence, and Majestic, sailed on ahead of the admiral. In
a few minutes every man stationed at the first six guns in the
fore part of the Vanguard's deck was killed or wounded — these
guns were three times cleared. Captain Louis, in the Minotaur,
anchored next ahead, and took off the fire of the Aquilon, the
fourth in the enemy's line. The Bellerophon, Captain Darby,
passed ahead, and dropped her stern anchor on the starboard bow
of the Orient, seventh in the line, Brueys' own ship, of one hun-
dred and twenty guns, whose difference in force was in proportion
of more than seven to three, and whose weight of ball, from the
lower deck alone, exceeded that from the whole broadside of the
Bellerophon. Captain Peyton, in the Defence, took his station
ahead of the Minotaur and engaged the Franklin, the sixth in the
line ; by which judicious movement the British line remained
unbroken. The Majestic, Captain Westcott, got entangled with
the main rigging of one of the French ships astern of the Orient,
and suffered dreadfully from that three-decker's fire ; but she
swung clear, and closely engaging the Heureux the ninth ship in
the starboard bow, received also the fire of the Tonnant, which
was the eighth in the line. The other four ships of the British
squadron, having been detached previous to the discovery of the
French, were at a considerable distance when the action began.
It commenced at half-after six, about seven the night closed, and
there was no other light than that from the fire of the contending
fleets.

Trowbridge, in the Culloden, then foremost of the remaining
ships, was two leagues astern. He came on sounding, as the
others had done. As he advanced, the increasing darkness in-
creased the difficulty of the navigation, and suddenly, after having
found eleven fathoms' water, before the lead could be hove again,
he was fast aground ; nor could all his own exertions, joined
to those of the Leander and the Mutine brig, which came to his

SOUTHEY.] THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 361

assistance, get him off in time to bear a part in the action. His
ship, however, served as a beacon to the Alexander and Swiftsure,
which would else, from the course they were holding, have gone
considerably farther on the reef, and must inevitably have been
lost These ships entered the bay and took their stations, in the
darkness, in a manner still spoken of with admiration by all who
remember it. Captain Hallowell, in the Swiftsure, as he was
bearing down, fell in with what seemed to be a strange sail. Nel-
son had directed his ships to hoist four lights horizontally at the
mizen peak as soon as it became dark, and this vessel had no such
distinction. Hallowell, however, with great judgment, ordered
his men not to fire. " If she was an enemy," he said, " she was
in too disabled a state to escape ; but from her sails being loose,
and the way in which her head was, it was probable she might be
an English ship." It was the Bellerophon, overpowered by the
huge Orient. Her lights had gone overboard, nearly two hundred
of her crew were killed or wounded, all her masts and cables had
been shot away, and she was drifting out of the line towards the
leeside of the bay. Her station at this important time was occu-
pied by the Swiftsure, which opened a steady fire on the quarter
of the Franklin and the bows of the French admiral. At the
same instant, Captain Ball, with the Alexander, passed under his
stern, and anchored within sight on his larboard quarter, raking
him, and keeping a severe fire of musketry upon his decks. The
last ship which arrived to complete the destruction of the enemy
was the Leander. Captain Thompson, finding that nothing could
be done that night to get off the Culloden, advanced with the in-
tention of anchoring athwart-hawse of the Orient. The Franklin
was so near her ahead, that there was not room for him to pass
clear of the two ; he therefore took his station athwart-hawse of
the latter, in such a position as to rake both.

The first two ships of the French line had been dismasted within
a quarter of an hour after the commencement of the action ; and
the others in that time suffered so severely, that victory was already
certain. The third, fourth, and fifth were taken possession of at
half-past eight. Meantime Nelson received a severe wound on

362 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SOUTHEY.

the head from a piece of langrage shot. Captain Berry caught
him in his arms as he was falling. The great effusion of blood
occasioned an apprehension that the wound was mortal. Nelson
himself thought so ; a large flap of the skin of the forehead, cut
from the bone, had fallen over the eye ; and, the other being
blind, he was in total darkness. When he was carried down, the
surgeon, in the midst of a scene scarcely to be conceived by those
who have never seen a cockpit in time of action, and the heroism
which is displayed amid its horrors — with a natural but pardonable
eagerness, quitted the poor fellow then under his hands, that he
might instantly attend the admiral. "No!" said Nelson, "I
will take my turn with my brave fellows." Nor would he suffer
his own wound to be examined, till every man who had been pre-
viously wounded was properly attended to. Fully believing that
the wound was mortal, and that he was about to die, as he had
ever desired, in battle and in victory, he called the chaplain, and
desired him to deliver what he supposed to be his dying remem-
brance to Lady Nelson ; he then sent for Captain Louis on board,
from the Minotaur, that he might thank him personally for the
great assistance he had rendered to the Vanguard ; and, ever
mindful of those who deserved to be his friends, appointed Cap-
tain Hardy from the brig, to the command of his own ship, Captain
Berry having to go home with the news of the victory. When the
surgeon came in due time to examine the wound, (for it was in
vain to entreat him to let it be examined sooner,) the most anxious
silence prevailed ; and the joy of the wounded men, and of the
whole crew, when they heard that the hurt was superficial, gave
Nelson deeper pleasure than the unexpected assurance that his
life was in no danger. The surgeon requested, and, as far as he
could, ordered him to remain quiet ; but Nelson could not rest.
He called for his secretary, Mr Campbell, to write the despatches.
Campbell had himself been wounded, and was so affected at the
blind and suffering state of the admiral, that he was unable to
write. The chaplain was sent for \ but, before he came, Nelson,
with his characteristic eagerness, took the pen, and contrived to
trace a few words, marking his devout sense of the success which

SOUTHEY.] THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 363

had already been obtained He was now left alone ; when sud-
denly a cry was heard on the deck that the Orient was on fire. In
the confusion, he found his way up, unassisted and unnoticed ;
and, to the astonishment of every one, appeared on the quarter-
deck, where he immediately gave orders that boats should be
sent to the relief of the enemy.

It was soon after nine that the fire on board the Orient broke
out Brueys was dead ; he had received three wounds, yet would
not leave his post. A fourth cut him almost in two. He desired
not to be carried below, but to be left to die upon deck. The
flames soon mastered his ship. Her sides had just been painted,
and the oil-jars and painting-buckets were lying on the poop. By
the prodigious light of this conflagration, the situation of the two
fleets could now be perceived, the colours of both being clearly
distinguishable. About ten o'clock the ship blew up, with a
shock which was felt to the very bottom of every vessel. Many
of her officers and men jumped overboard, some clinging to the
spars and pieces of wreck with which the sea was strewn ; others
swimming to escape from the destruction which they momently
dreaded. Some were picked up by our boats ; and some, even in
the heat and fury of the action, were dragged into the lower ports
of the nearest British ships by the British sailors. The greater
part of her crew, however, stood the danger to the last, and con-
tinued to fire from the lower deck. This tremendous explosion
was followed by a silence not less awful : the firing immediately
ceased on both sides ; and the first sound which broke the silence
was the dash of her shattered masts and yards falling into the
water from the vast height to which they had been exploded. It
is upon record, that a battle between two armies was once broken
off by an earthquake ; — such an event would be felt like a miracle :
but no incident in war, produced by human means, has ever
equalled the sublimity of this co-instantaneous pause, and all its
circumstances.

About seventy of the Orient's crew were saved by the English
boats. Among the many hundreds who perished were the com-
modore, Casa Bianca, and his son, a brave boy only ten years

364 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SOUTHEY.

old. They were seen floating on a shattered mast when the ship
blew up. She had money on board (the plunder of Malta) to the
amount of six hundred thousand pounds sterling. The masses of
burning wreck which were scattered by the explosion, excited for
some moments apprehensions in the English which they had
never felt from any other danger. Two large pieces fell into the
main and foretops of the Swiftsure, without injuring any person.
A port-fire also fell into the main-royal of the Alexander : the fire
which it occasioned was speedily extinguished. Captain Ball had
provided as far as human foresight could provide, against any
such danger. All the shrouds and sails of his ship not absolutely
necessary for its immediate management, were thoroughly wetted,
and so rolled up that they were as hard and as little inflammable
as so many solid cylinders.

The firing recommenced with the ships to leeward of the
centre, and continued till about three. At daybreak the Guil-
laume Tell and the Genereuse, the two rears of the enemy, were
the only French ships of the line which had their colours flying ;
they cut their cables in the forenoon, not having been engaged,
and stood out to sea, and two frigates with them. The Zealous
pursued ; but, as there was no other ship in a condition to support
Captain Hood, he was recalled. It was generally believed by
the officers that, if Nelson had not been wounded, not one of
these ships could have escaped ; the four certainly could not, if
the Culloden had got into action ; and, if the frigates belonging
to the squadron had been present, not one of the enemy's fleet
would have left Aboukir Bay. These four vessels, however, were
all that escaped ; and the victory was the most complete and glo-
rious in the annals of naval history. " Victory," said Nelson,
"is not a name strong enough for such a scene ;" — he called it a
conquest. Of thirteen sail of the line, nine were taken, and two
burnt ; of the four frigates, one was sunk ; another, the Artemise,
was burnt in a villanous manner by her captain, M. Estandlet,
who, having fired a broadside at the Theseus, struck his colours,
then set fire to the ship, and escaped with most of his crew
to shore. The British loss, in killed and wounded, amounted

DEFOE.] EARLY ADVENTURES OF COJLONEL JACK. 365

to 895. Westcott was the only captain who fell: 3105 of the
French, including the wounded, were sent on shore by cartel, and
5225 perished.

Thus ended this eventful battle, which exalted the name of
Nelson to a level at least with that of the celebrated conqueror,
whose surprising success at the head of the French armies had
then begun to draw the attention of the civilised world. Bonaparte
had stained his laurels by the unprecedented baseness of his
private conduct ; he had not scrupled to turn Turk, and all his
public proclamations were disgraced by the absurd phrases of
Mohammedan superstition : Nelson, on the other hand, had no
occasion of showing that he was an Englishman and a Christian ;
the first words of his despatches on this memorable occasion
prove his gratitude to that Providence which had protected him :
— "Almighty God has blessed his Majesty's arms?

242.— (gaxig ^bfontees 0f C0IcmeI Jfarh.

DEFOE.

[THE minor novels of the great author of " Robinson Crusoe " are now
little read ; and indeed they are, from the coarseness which belonged to the
period in which they were written, unfit for general perusal. But Defoe, how-
ever gross in occasional expressions, has a strictly moral object in whatever he
wrote. His " History of Colonel Jack " is one of these minor novels. It
possesses the same wonderful quality as "Robinson Crusoe" — the almost un-
rivalled power of making fiction appear reality, from the skilful combination of
minute details, which show the teeming invention as well as the accurate
judgment of the writer. Daniel Defoe was born in 1661. His father was a
Dissenter ; and the greater part of his life was spent in asserting the prin-
ciples of toleration, which were endangered by the Stuarts. He was unsuc-
cessfully engaged in business, and for many years maintained himself by his
pen. He died in 1731.]

The subtle devil, never absent from his business, but ready at
all occasions to encourage his servants, brought me into an in-
timacy with one of the most exquisite divers, or pick-pockets, in
the town ; and this our intimacy was of no less a kind than that,

366 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DEFOE.

as I had an inclination to be as wicked as any of them, he was
for taking care that I should not be disappointed.

He was above the little fellows who went about stealing trifles
and baubles in Bartholomew fair, and ran the risk of being mobbed
for 33. or 43. His aim was at higher' things, even at no less than
considerable sums of money and bills for more.

He solicited me earnestly to go and take a walk with him as
above, adding, that after he had shown me my trade a little, he
would let me be as wicked as I would j that is, as he expressed
it, that after he had made me capable, I should set up for myself,
if I pleased, and he would only wish me good luck.

Accordingly, he told me, if he had success, I should have my
share, as much as if I had been principal ; and this, he assured
me, was a custom of the trade, in order to encourage young be-
ginners, and bring them into the trade with courage, for that no-
thing was to be done if a man had not the heart of the lion.

I hesitated at the matter a great while, objecting the hazard;
" Well, colonel," says he, " I find you are faint-hearted, and to be
faint-hearted is indeed to be unfit for our trade, for nothing but
a bold heart can go through stitch with this work ; but, however,
as there is nothing for you to do, so there is no risk for you to
run in these things the first time. If I am taken," says he, "you
have nothing to do in it, they will let you go free, for it shall
easily be made appear, that whatever I have done you had no
hand in it."

Upon these persuasions I ventured out with him : but I soon
found that my new friend was a thief of quality, and a pick-
pocket above the ordinary rank. He was a bigger boy than I a
great deal ; for though I was now near fifteen years old, I was not
big of my age, and as to the nature of the thing, I was perfectly
a stranger to it ; I knew indeed what at first I did not, for it Avas
a good while before I understood the thing as an offence : I
looked on picking pockets as a trade, and thought I was to go
apprentice to it ; it is true, this was when I was young in the
society, as well as younger in years, but even now I understood
it to be only a thing for which, if we were catched, we ran the

DEFOE.] EARLY ADVENTURES OF COLONEL JACK. 367

risk of being ducked or pumped, which we call soaking, and then
all was over, and we made nothing of having our rags wetted a
little ; but I never understood, till a great while after, that the
crime was capital, and that we might be sent to Newgate for it,
till a great fellow, almost a man, one of our society, was hanged for
it; and then I was terribly frightened, as you shall hear by and by.

Well, upon the persuasions of this lad, I walked out with him ;
a poor innocent boy, and (as I remember my very thoughts per-
fectly well) I had no evil in my intentions ; I had never stolen
anything in my life : and if a goldsmith [banker] had left me in
his shop, with heaps of money strewed all around me, and bade
me look after it, I should not have touched it, I was so honest ;
but the subtle tempter baited his hook for me, as I was a child,
in a manner suitable to my childishness, for I never took this
picking of pockets to be dishonesty, but, as I have said above, I
looked on it as a kind of trade that I was to be bred up to, and
so I entered upon it, till I became hardened in it beyond the
power of retreating ; and thus I was made a thief involuntarily,
and went on a length that few boys do, without coming to the
common period of that kind of life, I mean to the transport ship
or to the gallows.

The first day I went abroad with my new instructor, he carried
me directly into the city, and as we went first to the water-side,
he led me into the long room at the Custom-House ; we were but
a couple of ragged boys at best, but I was much the worse ; my
leader had a hat on, a shirt, and a neck-cloth ; as for me, I had
neither of the three, nor had I spoiled my manners so much as to
have a hat on my head since my nurse died, which was now some
years. His orders to me were to keep always in sight, and near
him, but not close to him, nor to take any notice of him at any
time till he came to me; and if any hurly-burly happened, I
should by no means know him, or pretend to have anything to do
with him.

I observed my orders to a tittle. While he peered into every
corner, and had his eye upon everybody, I kept my eye directly
upon him, but went always at a distance, and on the other side of

368 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DEFOE.

the long room, looking as it were for pins, and picking them up
out of the dust as I could find them, and then sticking them on
my sleeve, where I had at last got forty or fifty good pins ; but
still my eye was upon my comrade, who, I observed, was very
busy among the crowds of people that stood at the board doing
business with the officers, who pass the entries, and make the
cocquets, &c.

At length he comes over to me, and, stooping as if he would
take up a pin close to me, he put something into my hand, and
said, " Put that up, and follow me down-stairs quickly." He did
not run, but shuffled along apace through the crowd, and went
down, not the great stairs which we came in at, but a little narrow
staircase at the other end of the long room ; I followed, and he
found I did, and so went on, not stopping below as I expected,
nor speaking one word to me, till through innumerable narrow
passages, alleys, and dark ways, we were got up into Fenchurch
Street, and through Billiter Lane into Leadenhall Street, and from
thence into Leadenhall Market.

It was not a meat-market day, so we had room to sit down
upon one of the butcher's stalls, and he bid me lug out What
he had given me was a little leather letter-case, with a French
almanac stuck in the inside of it, and a great many papers in it of i
several kinds.

We looked them over, and found there were several valuable
bills in it, such as bills of exchange ; and other notes, things I
did not understand ; but among the rest was a goldsmith's note,
as he called it, of one Sir Stephen Evans, for ^300, payable to
the bearer, and at demand ; besides this there was another note
for ,£12, i os., being a goldsmith's bill too, but I forget the name;
there was a bill or two also written in French, which neither of
us understood, but which it seems were things of value, being
called foreign bills accepted.

The rogue, my master, knew what belonged to the goldsmith's
bills well enough, and I observed, when he read the bill of Sir
Stephen, he said, "This is too big for me to meddle with;" but
when he came to the bill ,£12, ios., he said to me, "This will

DEFOE.] EARLY ADVENTURES OF COLONEL JACK. 369

do, come hither, Jack :" so away he runs to Lombard Street, and
I after him, huddling the other papers into the letter case. As
he went along, he inquired the name out immediately, and went
directly to the shop, put on a good grave countenance, and had
the money paid him without any stop or question asked ; I stood
on the other side the way, looking about the street, as not at all
concerned with anybody that way, but observed, that when he
presented the bill, he pulled out the letter-case, as if he had been
a merchant's boy, acquainted with business, and had other bills
about him.

They paid him the money in gold, and he made haste enough
in telling it over, and came away, passing by me, and going into
Three King Court, on the other side of the way, when we crossed
back into Clement's Lane, made the best of our way to Cole
Harbour at the water-side, and got a sculler for a penny to carry
us over the water to St Mary Over's stairs, where we landed, and
were safe enough.

Here he turns to me : " Colonel Jack," says he, " I believe
you 're a lucky boy ; this is a good job ; we '11 go away to St
George's Fields and share our booty. ;> Away we went to the
fields, and sitting down in the grass, far enough out of the path,
he pulled out the money — " Look here, Jack," says he ; " did you
ever see the like before in your life ? " — " No, never," says I ; and
added very innocently, "must we have it all1?" — "We have it!;'
says he ; "who should have it?" — "Why," says I, "must the man
have none of it again that lost it1?" — " He have it again !" says
he; "what d'ye mean by that1?" — "Nay, I don't know," says I ;
" why, you said just now you would let him have the t'other bill
again that you said was too big for you."

He laughed at me. " You are but a little boy," says he, " that 's
true ; but I thought you had not been such a child neither ;" so
he mighty gravely explained the thing to me thus : — " that the
bill of Sir Stephen Evans was a great bill for ^300, and if I,"
says he, " that am but a poor lad, should venture to go for the
money, they will presently say, how should I come by such a
bill, and that I certainly found it or stole it, so they will stop me,"

VOL. III. 2 A

370 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DEFOK.

says he, " and take it away from me, and it maybe bring me into
trouble for it, too ; so/' says he, " I did say it was too big for me
to meddle with, and that I would let the man have it again if I
could tell how; but for the money, Jack, the money that we have
got, I warrant you he should have none of that : besides,7' says
he, " whoever he be that has lost this letter-case — to be sure, as
soon as he missed it, he would run to a goldsmith and give notice
that if anybody came for the money they would be stopped, but
I am too old for him there," says he.

" Why," says I, " and what will you do with the bill — will you
throw it away1? — If you do, somebody else will find it," says I,
" and they will go and take the money." — " No, no," says he ;
" they will be stopped and examined, as I tell you I should be."
I did not know well what all this meant, so I talked no more
about that ; but we fell to handling the money. As for me I had
never seen so much together in all my life, nor did I know what
in the world to do with it, and once or twice I was going to bid
him keep it for me, which would have been done like a child in-
deed, for to be sure I had never heard a word more of it, though
nothing had befallen him.

However, as I happened to hold my tongue on that part, he
shared the money very honestly with me ; only at the end he told
me that though it was true he promised me half, yet as it was the
first time, and I had done nothing but look on, so he thought it
was very well if I took a little less than he did ; so he divided the
money, which was £12, ios., into two exact parts, viz., £6, 55.,
in each part ; then he took £it 53. from my part and told me I
should give him that for handsel. " Well," says I, " take it then,
for I think you deserve it all ; " so however I took up the rest ;
"and what shall I do with this now," says I, "for I have nowhere
to put it 1 " — " Why, have you no pockets," says he. — " Yes," says
I, " but they are full of holes." I have often thought since that
— and with some mirth too — how I had really more wealth than
I knew what to do with, for lodging I had none, nor any box or
drawer to hide my money in, nor had I any pockets, but such as
I say was full of holes ; I knew nobody in the world that I could

DEFOE,] EARLY ADVENTURES OF COLONEL JACK. 37 1

go and desire them to lay it up for me ; for being a poor, naked,
ragged boy, they would presently say I had robbed somebody,
and perhaps lay hold of me, and my money would be my crime,
as they say it often is in foreign countries ; and now, as I was
full of wealth, behold I was full of care, for what to do to secure
my money I could not tell ; and this held me so long, and was
so vexatious to me the next day, that I truly sat down and cried.

Nothing could be more perplexing than this money was to me
all that night. I carried it in my hand a good while, for it was in
gold all but 1 6s., and that is to say, it was four guineas, and that
1 6s. was more difficult to carry than the four guineas. At last I
sat down and pulled off one of my shoes, and put the four guineas
into that ; but after I had gone a while my shoe hurt me so I
could not go, so I was fain to sit down again and take it out of
my shoe and carry it in my hand ; then I found a dirty linen rag
in the street, and took that up and wrapt it all together and
carried it in that a good way. I have often since heard people
say, when they have been talking of money that they could not
get in, I wish I had it in a foul clout : in truth I had mine in a
foul clout ; for it was foul according to the letter of that saying,
but it served me till I came to a convenient place, and then I sat
down and washed the cloth in the kennel, and so then put my
money in again.

Well, I carried it home with me to my lodging in the glass-
house, and when I went to go to sleep, I knew not what to do
with it ; if I had let any of the black crew I was with know of it,
I should have been smothered in the ashes for it, or robbed of it,
or some trick or other put upon me for it ; so I knew not what to
do, but lay with it in my hand, and my hand in my bosom, but
then sleep went from my eyes. Oh, the weight of human care !
I, a poor beggar boy, could not sleep, so soon as I had but a
little money to keep, who, before that, could have slept upon a
heap of brickbats, stones, or cinders, or anywhere, as sound as a
rich man does on his down bed, and sounder too.

Every now and then dropping asleep, I should dream that my
money was lost, and start like one frightened ; then, finding it

372 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DEFOE.

fast in my hand, try to go to sleep again, but could not for a long
while, then drop and start again. At last a fancy came into my
head, that if I fell asleep, I should dream of the money, and talk
of it in my sleep, and tell that I had money; which if I should
do, and one of the rogues should hear me, they would pick it out
of my bosom, and of my hand too, without waking me ; and
after that thought I could not sleep a wink more ; so I passed
that night over in care and anxiety enough, and this, I may
safely say, was the first night's rest that I lost by the cares of this
life and the deceitfulness of riches.

As soon as it was day I got out of the hole we lay in, and
rambled abroad in the fields towards Stepney : and there I mused
and considered what I should do with this money, and many a
time I wished that I had not had it ; for, after all my ruminating
upon it, and what course I should take with it, or where I should
put it, I could not hit upon any one thing, or any possible method
to secure it, and it perplexed me so, that at last, as I said just
now, I sat down and cried heartily.

When my crying was over, the case was the same ; I had the
money still, and what to do with it I could not tell : at last it
came into my head that I would look out for some hole in a tree,
and see to hide it there till I should have occasion for it. Big
with this discovery, as I then thought it, I began to look about
me for a tree, but there were no trees in the fields about Stepney
or Mile End that looked fit for my purpose ; and if there were
any, that I began to look narrowly at, the fields were so full of
people, that they would see if I went to hide anything there, and
I thought the people eyed me, as it were, and that two men, in
particular, followed me to see what I intended to do.

This drove me farther off, and I crossed the road at Mile End,
and in the middle of the town went down a lane that goes away
to the Blind Beggar at Bethnal Green. When I came a little way
in the lane I found a footpath over the fields, and in those fields
several trees for my turn, as I thought ; at last one tree had a
little hole in it, pretty high out of my reach, and I climbed up
the tree to get at it; and when I came there I put my hand in

DRFOE.] EARLY ADVENTURES OF COLONEL JACK. 373

and found, as I thought, a place very fit ; so I placed my treasure
there, and was mighty well satisfied with it : but, behold, putting
my hand in again to lay it more commodiously as I thought, of a
sudden it slipped away from me, and I found the tree was hollow,
and my little parcel was fallen in quite out of my reach, and how
far it might go in I knew not ; so that, in a word, my money was
quite gone, irrecoverably lost ; there could be no room so much
as to hope ever to see it again, for 'twas a vast great tree.

As young as I was, I was now sensible what a fool I was
before, that I could not think of ways to keep my money, that I
must come thus far to throw it into a hole where I could not
reach it ; well, I thrust my hand quite up to my elbow, but no
bottom was to be found, or any end of the hole or cavity ; I got
a stick of the tree and thrust it in a great way, but all was one ;
then I cried, nay roared out, I was in such a passion ; then I got
down the tree again, then up again, and thrust in my hand again
till I scratched my arm, and made it bleed, and cried all the
while most violently : then I began to think I had not so much
as a halfpenny of it left for a halfpenny roll, and I was hungry,
and then I cried again : then I came away in despair, crying and
roaring like a little boy that had been whipped ; then I went
back again to the tree, and up the tree again, and thus I did
several times.

The last time I had gotten up the tree I happened to come
down not on the same side that I went up and came down before,
but on the other side of the tree, and on the other side of the
bank also : and, behold, the tree had a great open place in the
side of it, close to the ground, as the old hollow trees often have ;
and looking into the open place, to my inexpressible joy there
lay my money and my linen rag, all wrapped up just as I had
put it into the hole ; for the tree being hollow all the way up,
there had been some moss or light stuff, which I had not judg-
ment enough to know was not firm, that had given way when it
came to drop out of my hand, and so it had slipped quite down
at once.

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for I hallooed

374 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. IPRAED.

quite out aloud when I saw it ; then I ran to it and snatched it
up, hugged and kissed the dirty rag a hundred times ; then
danced and jumped about, ran from one end of the field to the
other, and, in short, I knew not what, much less do I know now
what I did, though I shall never forget the thing, either what a
striking grief it was to my heart when I thought I had lost it, or
what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had got it again.

243. —

THE VICAR.

{From the English edition of the Poems, 1864.)

PRAED.
SOME years ago, ere time and taste

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,

And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way, between

St Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the green,

And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ;
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say —

"Our master knows you — you 're expected."

Uprose the Reverend Dr Brown,

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow ;
The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ;

PKAED. ] E VER Y-DA Y CHA RA C TERS. 375

Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,

And warmed himself in Court or College,
He had not gained an honest friend

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,-—
If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor, —
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,

And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream, which runs

With rapid change from rocks to roses :
It slipped from politics to puns,

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ;
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses.
And ending with some precept deep

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound Divine,

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ;
And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep ;

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or showed

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,

Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome, or from Athanasius :

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and head that penned and planned them,

376 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [PRAED.

For all who understood admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller vetses,
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble Lords — and nurses ;
True histories of last year's ghost,

Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,
And trifles for the Morning Post,

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking ;
And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praised the farmer's homely wit,

And shared the widow's homelier pottage :
At his approach complaint grew mild ;

And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus ;
From him I learnt the rule of three,

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and qua genus :
I used to singe his powdered wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in,
And make the puppy dance a jig,

When he began to quote Augustine.

PR AS D . ] EVER Y-DA Y CHA RAC TERS. 377

Alack the change ! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, —
The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees 1 climbed, the beds I rifled :
The church is larger than before ;

You reach it by a carriage entry ;
It holds three hundred people more,

And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear.

Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid 1 — look down.

And construe on the slab before you,
" Hie jacet GVLIELMVS BROWN,

Vir nulla non donandus lauru"

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.

Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise or witty, —
Ere I had done with writing themes,

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ; — •
Years — years ago, — while all my joy

Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — •
In short, while I was yet a boy,

I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the County Ball :

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall

Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that set young hearts romancing ;

378 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PRAED

She was our queen, our rose, our star ;

And then she danced — O Heaven, her dancing !

Dark was her hair, her hand was white ;

Her voice was exquisitely teflder;
Her eyes were full of liquid light ;

I never saw a waist so slender !
Her every look, her every smile,

Shot right and left a score of arrows ;
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,

And wondered where she 'd left her sparrows.

She talked, — of politics or prayers, —

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, —
Of danglers — or of dancing bears,

Of battles — or the last new bonnets,
By candle light, at twelve o'clock,

To me it mattered not a tittle ;
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,

I loved her with a love eternal ;
I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them to the " Sunday Journal :"
My mother laughed ; I soon found out

That ancient ladies have no feeling :
My father frowned \ but how should gout

See any happiness in kneeling ]

She was the daughter of a Dean,

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic j
She had one brother, just thirteen,

Whose colour was extremely hectic ;
Her grandmother for many a year

Had fed the parish with her bounty ;
Her second cousin was a peer,

And Lord-Lieutenant of the County.

EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS. 379

But titles, and the three per cents.,

And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,

Oh, what are they to love's sensations ?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks —

Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses ;
He cares as little for the Stocks,

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beech,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading ;
She botanised ; I envied each

Young blosom in her boudoir fading :
She warbled Handel ; it was grand ;

She made the Catalani jealous :
She touched the organ ; I could stand

For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,

Well filled with all an album's glories j
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ;
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter,
And autographs of Prince Leboo,

And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ;

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted :
Her poodle dog was quite adored,

Her sayings were extremely quoted ;
She laughed, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolished ;
She frowned, and every look was sad,

As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many, just for fun, —
I knew that there was nothing in it ;

380 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [G LONG,

I was the first — the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute. —

I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded ;

She wrote a charming hand, — and oh !
How sweetly all her notes were folded !

Our love was like most other loves j —

A little glow, a little shiver,
A rosebud, and a pair of gloves,

And " Fly not yet " — upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,
A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, — and then we parted.

We parted ; months and years rolled by j

. We met again four summers after :
Our parting was all sob and sigh ;

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter :
For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers ;
And she was not the ball-room's Belle,

But only — Mrs Something Rogers 1

244.— Character 0f gratea:

G. LONG.

[WE extract a " Character of Brutus" from the notes to the concluding
volume of "The Civil Wars of Rome," a select translation of Plutarch, from
which we have already b«rrowed. This character will startle many of our
readers. But the acknowledged learning of Mr Long — one of the most dis-
tinguished scholars that have been sent forth from that great nurseiy of
scholars, Trinity College, Cambridge— will satisfy the candid that this estimate
of one of the great men of antiquity is not a hasty and unsupported theory.]

Brutus had moderate abilities, with great industry and much
learning : he had no merit as a general, but he had the courage

G. LONG.] CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. 381

of a soldier ; he had the reputation of virtue, and he was free
from many of the vices of his contemporaries : he was sober and

: temperate. Of enlarged political views he had none ; there is
not a sign of his being superior in this respect to the mass of his
contemporaries. When the Civil War broke out, he joined
Pompeius, though Pompeius had murdered his father. If he
gave up his private enmity, as Plutarch says, for what he believed

, to be the better cause, the sacrifice was honourable ; if there
were other motives, and I believe there were, his choice of his
party does him no credit. His conspiracy against Caesar can
only be justified by those, if there are such, who think that a
usurper ought to be got rid of in any way. But if a man is to be
murdered, one does not expect those to take a part in the act
who, after being enemies, have received favours from him, and
professed to be friends. The murderers should at least be a

i man's declared enemies who have just wrongs to avenge. Though
Brutus was dissatisfied with things under Caesar, he was not the

. first mover in the conspiracy. He was worked upon by others,
who knew that his character and personal relation to Caesar

> would in a measure sanctify the deed ; and by their persuasion,

1 not his own resolve, he became an assassin in the name of free-

• dom, which meant the triumph of his party, and in the name of

: virtue, which meant nothing.

The act was bad in Brutus as an act of treachery ; and it was

' bad as an act of policy. It failed in its object, the success of a
party, because the death of Caesar was not enough ; other victims
were necessary, and Brutus would not have them. He put him-
self at the head of a plot in which there was no plan : he dreamed
of success and forgot the means. He mistook the circumstances
of the times, and the character of the men. His conduct after
the murder was feeble and uncertain ; and it was also as illegal
as the usurpation of Caesar. " He left Rome as Praetor without
the permission of the Senate ; he took possession of a province
which, even according to Cicero's testimony, had been assigned
to another ; he arbitrarily passed beyond the boundaries of his
province, and set his effigy on the coins/' (Drumann.) He

382 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [G. LONG.

attacked the Bessi in order to give his soldiers booty, and he
plundered Asia to get money for the conflict against Caesar and
Antonius, for the mastery of Rome and Italy. The means that
he had at his disposal show that h* robbed without measure
and without mercy; and never was greater tyranny exercised over
helpless people in the name of liberty, than the wretched inhabit-
ants of Asia experienced from Brutus the " Liberator " and Cassius
" the last of the Romans." But all these great resources were
thrown away in an ill-conceived and worse-executed campaign.

Temperance, industry, and unwillingness to shed blood, are
noble qualities in a citizen and a soldier ; and Brutus possessed
them. But great wealth gotten by ill means is an eternal re-
proach ; and the trade of money-lending carried on in the names
of others, with unrelenting greediness, is both avarice and hypo-
crisy. Cicero, the friend of Brutus, is the witness for his wealth,
and for his unworthy means to increase it

Reflecting men in all ages have a philosophy. With the
educated Greeks and Romans, philosophy was religion. The
vulgar belief, under whatever name it may be, is never the beliet
of those who have leisure for reflection. The vulgar rich and
vulgar poor are immersed in sense ; the man of reflection strives
to emerge from it. To him the things which are seen are only
the shadows of the unseen ; forms without substance, but the
evidence of the substantial ; " for the invisible things of God
from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood
by the things that are made." (Epistle to the Romans, i. 20.)
Brutus was from his youth up a student of philosophy, and well
versed in the systems of the Greeks. Untiring industry and a
strong memory had stored his mind with the thoughts of others,
but he had not capacity enough to draw profit from his intellec-
tual as he did from his golden treasures. His mind was a barren
field on which no culture could raise an abundant crop. His
wisdom was the thought of others, and he had ever ready in
his mouth something that others had said. But to utter other
men's wisdom is not enough : a man must make it his own by
the labour of independent thought. Philosophy and superstition

G. LONG.] CHARACTER OF BRUTUS, 383

were blended in his mind, and they formed- a chaos in his be-
wildered brain, as they always will do ; and the product is
" Gorgons and Hydras and Chimaeras dire." In the still of night
phantoms floated before his wasted strength and watchful eyes ;
perhaps the vision of him, the generous and the brave, who had
saved the life of an enemy in battle, and fell by his hand in the
midst of peace. Conscience was his tormentor, for truth was
stronger than the illusions of a self-imputed virtue. Though
Brutus had condemned Cato's death, he died by his own hand,
not with the stubborn resolve of Cato, who would not yield to a
usurper, but merely to escape from his enemies. A Roman might
be pardoned for not choosing to become the prisoner of a Roman,
but his grave should have been the battle-field, and the instru-
ment should have been the hands of those who were fighting
against the cause which he proclaimed to be righteous and just.
Cato's son bettered his father's example : he died on the plain
of Philippi in the ranks of the enemy. Brutus died without
belief in the existence of that virtue which he had affected to
follow -, the triumph of a wrongful cause, as he conceived it, was
; a proof that virtue was an empty name. He forgot the transitory
( nature of all individual existences, and thought that justice
perished with him. But a true philosopher does not make him-
self a central point, nor his own misfortunes a final catastrophe.
He looks both backwards and forwards, to the past and the future,
and views himself as a small link in the great chain of events
which holds all things together. Brutus died in despair, with the
courage, but not with the faith of a martyr.

When men talk of tyranny and rise against it, the name of

Brutus is invoked ; a mere name and nothing else. What single

: act is there in the man's life which promised the regeneration of

I his country and the freedom of mankind ? Like other Romans,

» he only thought of maintaining the supremacy of Rome : his ideas

. were no larger than theirs ; he had no sympathy for those whom

Rome governed and oppressed. For his country, he had nothing

1 to propose : its worn out political constitution he would maintain,

-not amend; indeed, amendment was impossible. Probably he

384 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [G. LONG.

dreaded anarchy and the dissolution of social order, for that would
have released his creditors and confiscated his valuable estates.
But Caesar's usurpation was not an anarchy; it was a monarchy,
a sole rule ; and Brutus, who was ambitious, could not endure
that. It may be said that if the political views of Brutus were
narrow, he was only like most of his countrymen. But why then
is he exalted, and why is his name invoked ? What single title
had he to distinction, except what Caesar gave him 1 A man of
unknown family, the son of a woman whom Caesar debauched,
pardoned after fighting against his mother's lover, raised by him to
the praetorship, and honoured with Caesar's friendship — he has
owed his distinction to nothing else than murdering the man
whose genius he could not appreciate, but whose favours he had
enjoyed.

His spurious philosophy has helped to save him from the de-
testation which is his due ; but the false garb should be stripped
off. A stoic, an ascetic, and nothing more, is a mere negation.
The active virtues of Brutus are not recorded. If he sometimes
did an act of public justice, (chap 35,) it was not more than many
other Romans have done. To reduce this philosopher to his true
level, we ask, what did he say or do that showed a sympathy
with all mankind ] Where is the evidence that he had the feeling '
of justice which alone can regenerate a nation1? But it may be'
said, why seek in a Roman of his age what we cannot expect to
find 1 Why then elevate him above the rest of his age and conse-
crate his name 1 Why make a hero of him who murdered his
benefactor, and then ran away from the city which he was to save
— from we know not what? And why make a virtuous man of
him who was only austere, and who did not believe in the virtue
that he professed ? As to statesmanship, nobody has claimed
that for him yet.

The deputy of Arras, [Robespierre,] poor, and despised even by
his own party, won the confidence of the people by their belief in
his probity ; and he deserved it. Fanatical and narrow-minded,
he was still a man of principles. Untiring industry, unshaken
faith, and poverty, the guarantee of his probity, raised him slowly

ANONYMOUS.] ON THE A THENIAN OR A TORS. 385

to distinction, and enabled him to destroy all who stood between
him and the realisation of an unbending theory. Though he had
sacrificed the lives of others, he scorned to save his own by doing
what would have contradicted his principles : he respected the
form of legality, when its substance no longer existed, and refused
to sanction force when it would have been used for his own pro-
tection, (Lamartine, Histoire des Girondins, livr. Ixi. 9.) A great
and memorable example of crime, of fanaticism, and of virtue ; of
a career commenced in the cause of justice, in truth, faith, and
sincerity ; of a man who did believe in virtue, and yet spoiled the
cause in which he embarked, and left behind him a name for uni-
versal execration.

Treachery at home, enmity abroad, and misconduct in its own
leaders, made the French Revolution result in anarchy, and then
in a tyranny. The Civil Wars of Rome resulted in a monarchy,
and there was nothing else in which they could end. The Ro-
man monarchy or the empire was a natural birth. The French
empire was an abortion. The Roman empire was the proper
growth of the ages that had preceded it : they could produce
nothing better. In a few years after the battle of Philippi,
Csesar Octavianus got rid of his partner Antonius ; and, under
the administration of Augustus, the world enjoyed comparative
peace, and the Roman empire was established and consolidated.
The genius of Augustus, often ill-appreciated, is demonstrated by
the results of his policy. He restored order to a distracted state,
and transmitted his power to his successors. The huge fabric of
Roman greatness, resting on its ancient foundations, only crumbled
beneath the assaults that time and new circumstances make
against all political institutions.

ANONYMOUS.

[THE following is an extract from an article which appeared in " Knight's
Quarterly Magazine " some forty years ago. We trace in it the same antitheti-
VOL. III. 2 B

386 HALF -HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

cal style, and the same affluence of illustration, which distinguish most of the
productions of one of the most brilliant writers of our age.]

It may be doubted whether any compositions which have ever
been produced in the world are equally perfect in their kind with
the great Athenian orations. Genius is subject to the same laws
which regulate the production of corn and molasses. The supply
adjusts itself to the demand. The quantity maybe diminished by
restrictions, and multiplied by bounties. The singular excellence
to which eloquence attained at Athens is to be mainly attributed
to the influence which it exerted there. In turbulent times, un-
der a constitution purely democratic, among a people educated
exactly to that point to which men are most susceptible of strong
and sudden impressions, acute, but not sound reasoners, warm in
their feelings, unfixed in their principles, and passionate admirers
of fine composition, oratory received such encouragement as it
has never since obtained.

The taste and knowledge of the Athenian people was a favourite
object of the contemptuous derision of Samuel Johnson • a man
who knew nothing of Greek literature beyond the common school-
books, and who seems to have brought to what he had read
scarcely more than the discernment of a common schoolboy. He
used to assert with that arrogant absurdity which, in spite of his
great abilities and virtues, renders him perhaps the most ridiculous
character in literary history, that Demosthenes spoke to a people
of brutes ; — to a barbarous people ; — that there could have been
no civilisation before the invention of printing. Johnson was a
keen, but a very narrow-minded observer of mankind. He per-
petually confounded their general nature with their particular cir-
cumstances. He knew London intimately. The sagacity of his
remarks on its society is perfectly astonishing. But Fleet Street
was the world to him. He saw that the Londoners, who did not
read, were profoundly ignorant; and he inferred that a Greek,
who had few or no books, must have been as uninformed as one
of Mr Thrale's draymen.

There seems to be, on the contrary, every reason to believe

ANONYMOUS.] ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. 387

that, in general intelligence, the Athenian populace far surpassed
the lower orders of any community that has ever existed. It must
be considered that to be a citizen was to be a legislator — a soldier
— a judge — one upon whose voice might depend the fate of the
wealthiest tributary state, of the most eminent public man. The
lowest offices, both of agriculture and of trade, were, in common,
performed by slaves. The commonwealth supplied its meanest
members with the support of life, the opportunity of leisure, and
the means of amusement. Books were indeed few, but they were
excellent, and they were accurately known. It is not by turning
over libraries, but by repeatedly perusing and intently contemplat-
ing a few great models, that the mind is best disciplined. A man
of letters must now read much that he soon forgets, and much
from which he learns nothing worthy to be remembered. The
best works employ, in general, but a small portion of his time.
Demosthenes is said to have transcribed, six times, the History of
Thucydides. If he had been a young politician of the present
age, he might, in the same space of time, have skimmed innumer-
able newspapers and pamphlets. I do not condemn that desul-
tory mode of study which the state of things in our day renders
a matter of necessity. But I may be allowed to doubt whether
the changes, on which the admirers of modern institutions delight
to dwell, have improved our condition so much in reality as in
appearance. Rumford, it is said, proposed to the Elector of
Bavaria a scheme for feeding his soldiers at a much cheaper rate
than formerly. His plan was simply to compel them to masticate
their food thoroughly. A small quantity, thus eaten, would, accord-
ing to that famous projector, afford more sustenance than a large
meal hastily devoured. I do not know how Rumford's proposi-
tion was received : but, to the mind, I believe, it will be found
more nutritious to digest a page than to devour a volume.

Books, however, were the least part of the education of an
Athenian citizen. Let us, for a moment, transport ourselves, in
thought, to that glorious city. Let us imagine that we are enter-
ing its gates in the time of its power and glory. A crowd is
assembled round a portico. All are gazing with delight at the

388 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

entablature, for Phidias is putting up the frieze. We turn into
another street ; a rhapsodist is reciting there ; men, women, chil-
dren, are thronging round him ; the tears are running down their
cheeks ; their eyes are fixed ; their very breath is still ; for he is
telling how Priam fell at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those
hands — the terrible — the murderous — which had slain so many of
his sons. We enter the public place ; there is a ring of youths, all
leaning forward, with sparkling eyes, and gestures of expectation.
Socrates is pitted against the famous Atheist from Ionia, and has
just brought him to a contradiction in terms. But we are inter-
rupted. The herald is crying — " Room for the Prytanes." The
general assembly is to meet. The people are swarming in on
every side Proclamation is made — "Who wishes to speak?"
There is a shout, and a clapping of hands : Pericles is mounting
the stand. Then for a play of Sophocles ; and away to sup with
Aspasia. I know of no modern university which has so excellent
a system of education.

Knowledge thus acquired, and opinions thus formed, were, in-
deed, likely to be, in some respects, defective. Propositions,
which are advanced in discourse, generally result from a partial
view of the question, and cannot be kept under examination long
enough to be corrected. Men of great conversational powers al-
most universally practise a sort of lively sophistry and exaggera-
tion, which deceives, for the moment, both themselves and their
auditors. Thus, we see doctrines, which cannot bear a close
inspection, triumph perpetually in drawing-rooms, in debating
societies, and even in legislative or judicial assemblies. To the
conversational education of the Athenians, I am inclined to attri-
bute the great looseness of reasoning which is remarkable in most
of their scientific writings. Even the most illogical of modern
writers would stand perfectly aghast at the puerile fallacies which
seem to have deluded some of the greatest men of antiquity. But
the very circumstances which retarded the growth of science were
peculiarly favourable to the cultivation of eloquence. From the
early habit of taking a share in animated discussion, the intelligent
student would derive that readiness of resource, that copiousness

ANONYMOUS.] ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. 389

of language, and that knowledge of the temper and understanding
of an audience, which are far more valuable to an orator than the
greatest logical powers.

Horace has prettily compared poems to those paintings of
which the effect varies as the spectator changes his stand. The
same remark applies with at least equal justice to speeches. They
must be read with the temper of those to whom they were ad-
dressed, or they must necessarily appear to offend against the
laws of taste and reason ; as the finest picture, seen in a light
different from that for which it was designed, will appear fit only
for a sign. This is perpetually forgotten by those who criticise
oratory. Because they are reading at leisure, pausing at every
line, reconsidering every argument, they forget that the hearers
were hurried from point to point too rapidly to detect the fallacies
through which they were conducted ; that they had no time to
disentangle sophisms, or to notice slight inaccuracies of expres-
sion j that elaborate excellence, either of reasoning or of language,
would have been absolutely thrown away. To recur to the ana-
logy of the sister art, these connoisseurs examine a panorama
through a microscope, and quarrel with a scene-painter because he
does not give to his work the exquisite finish of Gerard Dow.

Oratory is to be estimated on principles different from those
which are applied to other productions. Truth is the object of
philosophy and history. Truth is the object even of those works
which are peculiarly called works of fiction, but which, in fact,
bear the same relation to history which algebra bears to arith-
metic. The merit of poetry, in its wildest forms, still consists in
its truth — truth conveyed to the understanding, not directly by
the words, but circuitously by means of imaginative associations,
which serve as its conductors. The object of oratory alone is not
truth, but persuasion. The admiration of the multitude does not
make Moore a greater poet than Coleridge, or Beattie a greater
philosopher than Berkeley. But the criterion of eloquence is dif-
ferent. A speaker, who exhausts the whole philosophy of a ques-
tion, who displays every grace of style, yet produces no effect on
his audience, may be a great essayist, a great statesman, a great

39° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARE.

master of composition, but he is not an orator. If he miss the
mark, it makes no difference whether he have taken aim too high
or too low.

The effect of the great freedom of {fie press in England has
been, in a great measure, to destroy this distinction, and to leave
among us little of what I call Oratory Proper. Our legislators,
our candidates, on great occasions even our advocates, address
themselves less to the audience than to the reporters. They
think less of the few hearers than of the innumerable readers.
At Athens the case was different ; there the only object of the
speaker was immediate conviction and persuasion. He, there-
fore, who would justly appreciate the merit of the Grecian orators
should place himself, as nearly as possible, in the situation of
their auditors ; he should divest himself of his modern feelings
and acquirements, and make the prejudices and interests of the
Athenian citizens his own. He who studies their works in this
spirit will find that many of those things which, to an English
reader, appear to be blemishes — the frequent violation of those
excellent rules of evidence, by which our courts of law are regu-
lated— the introduction of extraneous matter — the reference to
considerations of political expediency in judicial investigations
— the assertions without proof — the passionate entreaties — the
furious invectives — are re'ully proofs of the prudence and ad-
dress of the speakers. He must not dwell maliciously on argu-
ments or phrases ; but acquiesce in his first impressions. It
requires repeated perusal and reflection to decide rightly on
any other portion of literature. But, with respect to works of
which the merit depends on their instantaneous effect, the most
hasty judgment is likely to be best.

246.— $ fftettw of

ARCHDEACON HARE.

[FROM the Seventh Sermon of a volume, entitled " The Victory of Faith,'
This Sermon was preached before the University of Cambridge, in 1828.]

ARCHDEACON HAKE. THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT. 391

Walk as children of light. This is the simple and beautiful
substance of your Christian duty. This is your bright privilege,
which, if you use it according to the grace whereby you have re-
ceived it, will be a prelude and foretaste of the bliss and glory of
heaven. It is to light that all nations and languages have had
recourse, whenever they wanted a symbol for anything excellent
in glory ; and if we were to search through the whole of inani-
mate nature for an emblem of pure unadulterated happiness,
where could we find such an emblem, except in light ? — traversing
the illimitable regions of space with a speed surpassing that of
thought, incapable of injury or stain, and, whithersoever it goes,
showering beauty and gladness. In order, however, that we may
in due time inherit the whole fulness of this radiant beatitude, we
must begin by training and fitting ourselves for it. Nothing good
bursts forth all at once. The lightning may dart out of a black
cloud ; but the day sends his bright heralds before him, to pre-
pare the world for his coming. So should we endeavour to render
our lives here on earth as it were the dawn of heaven's eternal day :
we should endeavour to walk as children. of light. Our thoughts
and feelings should all be akin to light, and have something of
the nature of light in them : and our actions should be like the
action of light itself, and like the actions of all those powers and
of all those beings which pertain to light, and may be said to
form the family of light ; while we should carefully abstain and
shrink from all such works as pertain to darkness, and are wrought
by those who may be called the brood of darkness.

Thus the children of light will walk as having the light of know-
ledge, steadfastly, firmly, right onward to the end that is set before
them. When men are walking in the dark, through an unknown
and roadless country, they walk insecurely, doubtingly, timidly.
For they cannot see where they are treading : they are fearful of
stumbling against a stone, or falling into a pit ; they cannot even
keep on for many steps certain of the course they are taking. But
by day we perceive what is under us and about us, we have the
end of our journey, or at least the quarter where it lies, full in
view, and we are able to make for it by the safest and speediest

392 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARE.

way. The very same advantage have those who are light in the
Lord, the children of spiritual light, over the children of spiritual
darkness. They know whither they are going ; to heaven. They
know how they are to get there : by Hyn who has declared Him-
self to be the Way ; by keeping His words, by walking in His
paths, by trusting in His atonement. If you then are children of
light, if you know all this, walk according to your knowledge,
without stumbling or slipping, without swerving or straying, with-
out loitering or dallying by the way, onward and ever onward
beneath the light of the Sun of Righteousness, on the road which
leads to heaven.

In the next place the children of light are upright, and honest,
and straightforward, and open, and frank, in all their dealings.
There is nothing like lurking or concealment about them, nothing
like dissimulation, nothing like fraud or deceit These are the
ministers and the spawn of darkness. It is darkness that hides
its face, lest any should be appalled by so dismal a sight : light is
the revealer and manifester of all things. It lifts up its brow on
high, that all may behold it : for it is conscious that it has nothing
to dread, that the breath of shame cannot soil it. Whereas the
wicked lie in wait, and roam through the dark, and screen them-
selves therein from the sight of the sun ; as though the sun were
the only eye wherewith God can behold their doings. It is under
the cover of night that the reveller commits his foulest acts of
intemperance and debauchery. It is under the cover of night
that the thief and the murderer prowls about to bereave his
brother of his substance or of his life. These children of dark-
ness seek the shades of darkness to hide themselves thereby from
the eyes of their fellow-creatures, from the eyes of Heaven, nay,
even from their own eyes, from the eye of conscience, which at
such a season they find it easier to hoodwink and blind. They,
on the other hand, who walk abroad and ply their tasks during
the day, are those by whose labour their brethren are benefited
and supported ; those who make the earth yield her increase, or
who convert her produce into food and clothing, or who minister
to such wants as spring up in countless varieties beneath the

ARCHDEACON HARE.] THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT. 393

march of civilised society. Nor is this confined to men ; the brute
animals seem to be under a similar instinct. The beasts of prey
lie in their lair during the daytime, and wait for sunset ere they
sally out on their destructive wanderings ; while the beneficent
and household animals, those which are most useful and friendly
to man, are like him in a certain sense children of light, and come
forth and go to rest with the sun. They who are conscious of no
evil wish or purpose do not shun or shrink from the eyes of
others ; though never forward in courting notice, they bid it wel-
come when it chooses to visit them. Our Saviour himself tells us,
that the condemnation of the world 'lies in this, that although light is
come into the world, yet men love darkness rather than light, because
their deeds are evil. Nothing but their having utterly depraved
their nature could seduce them into loving what is so contrary and
repugnant to it. For every one that doeth evil hateth the light, nor
cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved. But he that
doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be made manifest,
that they are wrought in God. To the same effect He commands
His disciples to let their light so shine before men, that they may see
their good works, not, however, for any vain, ostentatious, selfish
purpose — this would have been directly against the whole spirit
of His teaching — but in order that men may be moved thereby to
glorify God.

For the children of light are also meek and lowly. Even the
sun, although he stands up on high, and drives his chariot across
the heavens, rather averts observation from himself than attracts
it. His joy is to glorify his Maker, to display the beauty, and
magnificence, and harmony, and order, of all the works of God.
So far, however, as it is possible for him, he withdraws himself
from the eyes of mankind : not indeed in darkness, wherein the
wicked hide their shame, but in excess of light, wherein God him-
self veils His glory. And if we look at the other children of
light, that host of white-robed pilgrims that travel across the vault
of the nightly sky, the imagination is unable to conceive anything
quieter, and calmer, and more unassuming. They are the ex-
quisite and perfect emblems of meek loveliness and humility in

394 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARK.

high station. It is only the spurious lights of the fires whereby
the earth would mimic the light of heaven, that glare and flare
and challenge attention for themselves ; while, instead of illumin-
ing the darkness beyond their immediate neighbourhood, they
merely make it thicker and more palpable ; as these lights alone
vomit smoke, as these alone ravage and consume.

Again ; the children of light are diligent, and orderly, and un-
weariable in the fulfilment of their duties. Here, also, they take
a lesson from the sun, who pursues the path that God has marked
out for him, and pours daylight on whatever is beneath him from
his everlasting, inexhaustible fountains, and causes the wheel of
the seasons to turn round, and summer and winter to perform
their annual revolutions, and has never been behindhand in his
task, and never slackens, nor faints, nor pauses ; nor ever will
pause, until the same hand which launched him on his way shall
again stretch itself forth to arrest his course. All the children of
light are careful to follow their Master's example, and to work his
works while it is day ; for they know that the night of the grave
cometh, when no man can work, and that, unless they are work-
ing the works of light, when that night overtakes them, darkness
must be their portion for ever.

The children of light are likewise pure. For light is not only
the purest of all sensuous things, so pure that nothing can defile
it, but whatever else is defiled, is brought to the light, and the
light purifies it. And the children of light know that; although,
whatever darkness may cover them will be no darkness to God,
it may and will be darkness to themselves. They know that, al-
though no impurity in which they can bury their souls will be
able to hide them from the sight of God, yet it will utterly hide
God from their sight. They know that it is only by striving to
purify their own hearts, even as God is pure, that they can at all
fit themselves for the beatific vision which Christ has promised to
the pure of heart.

Cheerfulness, too, is a never-failing characteristic of those who
are truly children of light. For is not light at once the most
joyous of all things, and the enlivener and gladdener of all nature*

ARCHDEACON HARE.] THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT, 295

animate and inanimate, the dispeller of sickly cares, the calmer
of restless disquietudes 1 Is it not as a bridegroom that the sun
comes forth from his chamber1? — and does he not rejoice as a
giant to run his course 1 Does not all nature grow bright the
moment he looks upon her, and welcome him with smiles 1 Do
not all the birds greet him with their merriest notes? Do not
even the sad tearful clouds deck themselves out in the glowing
hues of the rainbow, when he vouchsafes to shine upon them 1
And shall not man smile with rapture beneath the light of the Sun
of Righteousness? Shall he not hail His rising with hymns of
praise and psalms of thanksgiving? Shall he not be cheered
amid his deepest affliction, when the rays of that Sun fall upon
him, and paint the arch of promise on his soul ? It cannot be
otherwise. Only while we are hemmed in with darkness are we
harassed by terrors and misgivings. When we see clearly on
every side, we feel bold and assured j nothing can then daunt,
nothing can dismay us. Even that sorrow which with all others
is the most utterly without hope, the sorrow for sin, is to the
children of light the pledge of their future bliss. For with them
it is the sorrow which worketh repentance unto salvation ; and
having the Son of God for their Saviour, what can they fear ? Or,
rather, when they know and feel in their hearts that God has
given His only-begotten Son to suffer death for their sakes, how
shall they not trust that He, who has given them His Son, will
also give them whatsoever is for their real, everlasting good.

Finally, the children of light will also be children of love. In-
deed, it is only another name for the same thing. For light is
the most immediate outward agent and minister of God's love,
the most powerful and rapid diffuser of His blessings through the
whole universe of His creation. It blesses the earth, and makes
her bring forth herbs and plants. It blesses the herbs and plants,
and makes them bring forth their grain and their fruit. It blesses
every living creature, and enables all to support and enjoy their
existence. Above all, it blesses man, in his goings out and his
comings in, in his body and in his soul, in his senses and in his
imagination, and in his affections : in his social intercourse with

396 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHDEACON HARK.

his brother, and in his solitary communion with his Maker.
Merely blot out light from the earth, and joy will pass away from
it ; and health will pass away from it ; and life will pass away
from it; and it will sink back into a confused, turmoiling chaos.
In no way can the children of light so well prove that this is in-
deed their parentage, as by becoming the instruments of God in
shedding His blessings around them. Light illumines every-
thing, the lowly valley as well as the lofty mountain ; it fructifies
everything, the humblest herb as well as the lordliest tree ; and
there is nothing hid from its heat. Nor does Christ the Original,
of whom light is the image, make any distinction between the
high and the low, between the humble and the lordly. He comes
to all, unless they drive Him from their doors. He calls to all,
unless they obstinately close their ears against Him. He blesses
all, unless they cast away His blessing. Nay, although they cast
it away, He still perseveres in blessing them, even unto seven
times, even unto seventy times seven. Ye, then, who desire to
be children of light, ye who would gladly enjoy the full glory and
blessedness of that heavenly name, take heed to yourselves, that
ye walk as children of light in this respect more especially. No
part of your duty is easier ; you may find daily and hourly oppor-
tunity of practising it. No part of your duty is more delightful ;
the joy you kindle in the heart of another cannot fail of shedding
back its brightness on your own. No part of your duty is more
godlike. They who attempted to become like God in knowledge,
fell in the garden of Eden. They who strove to become like
God in power, were confounded on the plain of Shinar. They
who endeavour to become like God in love, will feel His approv-
ing smile and His helping arm ; every effort they make will bring
them nearer to His presence ; and they will find His renewed
image grow more and more vivid within them, until the time
comes, when they too shall shine forth as the sun in the kingdom
of their Father.

SCOTT.] THE SCOTTISH BORDERERS.

397

247.— ®fj* Sroffbjr

SCOTT.

[THE extract which we give from the most popular author of his time is
neither from his poetical nor his prose romances. Those works are in the
hands of every reader ; and we exclude them from the plan of this selection,
for the same reason that we exclude scenes from Shakspere. The following
account is from the original introduction to the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border," and was written in 1802. That work was the first publication of
Scott which developed the nature of his tastes and acquirements. It was the
germ, at once, of the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," and of " Waverley." The
life of Scott is not to be told in a brief notice like this. He was born on the
I5th of August 1771 ; and died on 2ist of September 1832. His father was a
highly respectable writer to the signet in Edinburgh, and was connected by
blood with several noble families. Scott was a sickly boy, and lame from his
infancy. His delicate health led to the cultivation of his mind according to
his own tastes ; and the love of fiction gave the chief direction to his studies and
amusements. Gradually, however, his constitution was established, though he
remained always lame, but wonderfully active. He went through the formali-
ties of a lawyer's education ; was called to the Scottish bar in 1792 ; was ap-
pointed sheriff of Selkirkshire in 1 799 ; and one of the principal clerks of
session in 1806. During this period he had some independence and much
leisure ; and from the time when he published a German translation in 1 796,
to the appearance of the "Lord of the Isles," in 1814, he was cultivating that
taste which, during ten years, made him the most popular poet of the day. In
1814 " Waverley " was published anonymously. The success of this remark-
able novel, and the rapid appearance of a succession of works by the same
master, produced an era in our literature. Never was such triumphant success
witnessed during an author's life-time. In 1826, Scott, who was mixed up with
commercial undertakings, and who had too freely used the dangerous power
of anticipating revenue by unlimited credit, was brought to ruin by the failure of
these artificial resources, in connexion with publishers and printers. This is
the heroic period of his life. His struggles to do justice to his creditors are
beyond praise — they are for example, and are sacred. He fell in the contest
with circumstances. The last words which he used in a public assembly were
significant ones — they were those of the dying gladiator.]

Their morality was of a singular kind. The rapine by which
they subsisted, they accounted lawful and honourable. Ever liable
to lose their whole substance by an incursion of the English on a
sudden breach of truce, they cared little to waste their time in cul-
tivating crops to be reaped by their foes. Their cattle was, there-

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Scorr.

fore, their chief property ; and these were nightly exposed to the
southern Borderers, as rapacious and active as themselves. Hence
robbery assumed the appearance of fair reprisal. The fatal privi-
lege of pursuing the marauders into their own country, for re-
covery of stolen goods, led to continual skirmishes. The warden,
also, himself frequently the chieftain of a Border horde, when re-
dress was not instantly granted by the opposite officer for depre-
dations sustained by his district, was entitled to retaliate upon
England by a warden raid. In such cases, the mosstroopers who
crowded to his standard, found themselves pursuing their craft
under legal authority, and became the followers and favourites of
the military magistrate, whose ordinary duty it was to check and
suppress them. Equally unable and unwilling to make nice dis-
tinctions, they were not to be convinced that what was to-day
fair booty was to-morrow a subject of theft. National animosity
usually gave an additional stimulus to their rapacity : although it
must be owned that their depredations extended also to the more
cultivated parts of their own country.

The Borderers had, in fact, little reason to regard the inland
Scots as their fellow-subjects, or to respect the power of the
crown. They were frequently resigned, by express compact, to
the bloody retaliation of the English, without experiencing any
assistance from their prince and his more immediate subjects. If
they beheld him, it was more frequently in the character of an
avenging judge than of a protecting sovereign. They were, in
truth, in the time of peace, a kind of outcasts, against whom the
united powers of England and Scotland were often employed.
Hence, the men of the Borders had little attachment to their
monarchs, whom they termed in derision, the kings of Fife and
Lothian ; provinces which they were not legally entitled to inhabit,
and which, therefore, they pillaged with as little remorse as if they
had belonged to a foreign country. This strange, precarious, and
adventurous mode of life, led by the Borderers, was not without
its pleasures, and seems, in all probability, hardly so disagreeable
to us as the monotony of regulated society must have been to
those who had been long accustomed to a state of rapine. Well

SCOTT.] THE SCOTTISH BORDERERS. 399

has it been remarked, by the eloquent Burke, that the shifting
tides of fear and hope, the flight and pursuit, the peril and escape,
alternate famine and feast, of the savage and the robber, after a
time render all course of slow, steady, progressive, unvaried occu-
pation, and the prospect only of a limited mediocrity, at the end of
long labour, to the last degree tame, languid, and insipid. The
interesting nature of their exploits may be conceived from the
account of Camden.

The inroads of the Marchers, when stimulated only by the de-
sire of plunder, were never marked by cruelty, and seldom even
with bloodshed unless in the case of opposition. They held, that
property was common to all who stood in want of it ; but they
abhorred and avoided the crime of unnecessary homicide. This
was perhaps partly owing to the habits of intimacy betwixt the
Borderers of both kingdoms, notwithstanding their mutual hos-
tility and reciprocal depredations. A natural intercourse took
place between the English and Scottish Marches, at Border
meetings, and during the short intervals of peace. They met
frequently at parties of the chase and football ; and it required
many and strict regulations, on both sides, to prevent them from
forming intermarriages and from cultivating too closely a degree
of intimacy. The custom also of paying black-mail, or protection
rent, introduced a connexion betwixt the countries ; for a Scot-
tish Borderer taking black-mail from an English inhabitant, was
not only himself bound to abstain from injuring such person, but
also to maintain his quarrel, and recover his property if carried
off by others. Hence, a union arose betwixt the parties, founded
upon mutual interest, which counteracted, in many instances, the
effects of national prejudice.

This humanity and moderation was, on certain occasions,
entirely laid aside by the Borderers. In the case of deadly feud,
either against an Englishman or against any neighbouring tribe,
the whole force of the offended clan was bent to avenge the death
of any of their number. Their vengeance not only vented itself
upon the homicide and his family, but upon all his kindred, on

400 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SCOTT.

his whole tribe, and on every one, in fine, whose death or ruin
could affect him with regret.

The immediate rulers of the Borders were the chieft of the
different clans, who exercised over their respective septs a do-
minion partly patriarchal and partly feudal. The latter bond of
adherence was, however, the more slender ; for, in the acts
regulating the Borders, we find repeated mention of " Clannes
having captaines and chieftaines on whom they depend, oft-times
against the willes of their landelordes." Of course these laws
looked less to the feudal superior, than to the chieftain of the
name, for the restraint of the disorderly tribes; and it is re-
peatedly enacted, that the head of the clan should be first called
upon to deliver those of his sept who should commit any trespass,
and that, on his failure to do so, he should be liable to the in-
jured party in full redress. By the same statues, the chieftains and
landlords presiding over Border clans were obliged to find caution,
and to grant hostages, that they would subject themselves to, the
due course of law. Such clans as had no chieftain of sufficient
note to enter bail for their quiet conduct became broken men,
outlawed to both nations.

From these enactments the power of the Border chieftains may
be conceived, for it had been hard and useless to have punished j
them for the trespass of their tribes, unless they possessed over
them unlimited authority. The abodes of these petty princes by
no means corresponded to the extent of their power. We do not:
find on the Scottish Borders the splendid and extensive baronial
castles which graced and defended the opposite frontier. The
Gothic grandeur of Alnwick, of Raby, and of Naworth, marks the
wealthier and more secure state of the English nobles. The
Scottish chieftain, however extensive his domains, derived no
pecuniary advantage, save from such parts as he could himself
cultivate or occupy. Payment of rent was hardly known on the
Borders till after the Union of 1603. All that the landlord could
gain from those residing upon his estate was their personal service
in battle, their assistance in labouring the land retained in his
natural possession, some petty quit-rents of a nature resembling

SCOTT.] THE SCOTTISH BORDERERS. 401

the feudal casualties, and perhaps a share in the spoil which they
acquired by rapine. This, with his herds of cattle and of sheep,
and with the black-mail which he exacted from his neighbours,
constituted the revenue of the chieftain ; and from funds so pre-
carious he could rarely spare sums to expend in strengthening or
decorating his habitation. Another reason is found in the Scot-
tish mode of warfare. It was early discovered that the English
surpassed their neighbours in the arts of assaulting and defending
fortified places. The policy of the Scots, therefore, deterred
them from erecting upon the Borders buildings of such extent
and strength as, being once taken by the foe, would have been
capable of receiving a permanent garrison. To themselves the
woods and hills of their country were pointed out by the great
Bruce as their safest bulwarks ; and the maxim of the Douglases,
that " it was better to hear the lark sing than the mouse cheep,"
was adopted by every Border chief. For these combined reasons
the residence of the chieftain was commonly a large square battle-
mented tower, called a keep or peel, placed on a precipice on the
banks of a torrent, and, if the ground would permit, surrounded
by a moat. In short, the situation of a Border house, encom-
passed by woods, and rendered almost inaccessible by torrents,
by rocks, or by morasses, sufficiently indicated the pursuits and
apprehensions of its inhabitants. No wonder, therefore, that
James V., on approaching the castle of Lockwood, the ancient
seat of the Johnstones, is said to have exclaimed, " that he who
built it must have been a knave in his heart." An outer wall,
with some light fortifications, served as a protection for the cattle
at night. The walls of these fortresses were of an immense thick-
ness, and they could easily be defended against any small force ;
more especially as the rooms being vaulted each story formed a
separate lodgement, capable of being held out for a considerable
time. On such occasions the usual mode adopted by the assail-
ants was to expel the defenders by setting fire to wet straw in the
lower apartments. But the Border chieftains seldom chose to
abide in person a siege of this nature ; and I have scarce observed
VOL. in. 2 c

402 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Scorr.

a single instance of a distinguished baron made prisoner in his
own house. The common people resided in paltry huts, about
the safety of which they were little anxious, as they contained
nothing of value. On the approach of a superior force they
unthatched them, to prevent their being burned, and then aban-
doned them to the foe. Their only treasures were a fleet and
active horse, with the ornaments which their rapine had procured
for the females of their family, of whose gay appearance they were
vain.

Upon the religion of the Borderers there can very little be said.
They remained attached to the Roman Catholic faith rather longer
than the rest of Scotland. This probably arose from a total in-
difference upon the subject ; for we nowhere find in their character
the respect for the Church, which is a marked feature of that re-
ligion. The abbeys which were planted upon the Border neither
seem to have been much respected by the English nor by the
Scottish barons. They were repeatedly burned by the former in
the course of the Border wars, and by the latter they seem to have
been regarded chiefly as the means of endowing a needy relation,
or the subject of occasional plunder. The Reformation was late
of finding its way into the Border wilds ; for, while the religious
and civil dissentions were at their height, in 1568, Drury writes to
Cecil — " Our trusty neighbours of Teviotdale are holden occupied
only to attend to the pleasure and calling of their own heads, to
make some diversion in the matter." The influence of the re-
formed preachers, among the Borderers, seem also to have been
but small ; for, upon all occasions of dispute with the Kirk, James
VI. was wont to call in their assistance.

But, though the Church, in these frontier counties, attracted
little veneration, no part of Scotland teemed with superstitious
fears and observances more than they did. " The Dalesmen,"
says Lesley, " never count their beads with such earnestness as
when they set out upon a predatory expedition." Penances, the
composition betwixt guilt and conscience, were also frequent upon
the -Borders. These were superstitions flowing immediately from
the nature of the Catholic religion; but there was, upon the

SCOTT.] THE SCOTTISH BORDERERS. 403

Border, no lack of others of a more general nature. Such was
the universal belief in spells, of which some traces may yet remain
in the wild parts of the country.

We learn from Lesley, that the Borderers were temperate in
their use of intoxicating liquors, and we are therefore left to con-
jecture how they occupied the time, when winter, or when accident,
confined them to their habitations. The little learning which
existed in the middle ages glimmered, a dim and dying flame, in
the religious houses ; and even in the sixteenth century, when its
beams became more widely diffused, they were far from penetrat-
ing the recesses of the Border mountains. The tales of tradition,
the song, with the pipe or harp of the minstrel, were probably the
sole resources against ennui during the short intervals of repose
from military adventure.

The more rude and wild the state of society, the more general
and violent is the impulse received from poetry and music. The
muse, whose effusions are the amusement of a very small part ot
a polished nation, records, in the lays of inspiration, the history,
the laws, the very religion of savages. Where the pen and the
press are wanting, the flow of numbers impressed upon the memory
of posterity the deeds and sentiments of their forefathers. Verse
is naturally connected with music; and, among a rude people,
the union is seldom broken. By this natural alliance, the lays,
" steeped in the stream of harmony," are more easily retained by
the reciter, and produce upon his audience a more impressive
effect. Hence, there has hardly been found to exist a nation so
brutishly rude as not to listen with enthusiasm to the songs ot
their bards, recounting the exploits of their forefathers, recording
their laws and moral precepts, or hymning the praises of their
deities. But where the feelings are frequently stretched to the
highest pitch, by the vicissitudes of a life of danger and military
adventure, this predisposition of a savage people to admire their
own rude poetry and music is heightened, and its tone becomes
peculiarly determined. It is not the peaceful Hindoo at his loom,
it is not the timid Esquimaux in his canoe, whom we must expect
to glow at the war-song of Tyrtseus. The music and the poetry

404 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SCOTT.

of each country must keep pace with their usual tone of mind, as
well as with the state of society.

The morality of their compositions is determined by the same
circumstances. Those themes are necessarily chosen by the bard
which regard the favourite exploits of theliearers, and he celebrates
only those virtues which from infancy he has been taught to ad-
mire. Hence, as remarked by Lesley, the music and songs of the
Borderers were of a military nature, and celebrated the valour and
success of their predatory expeditions. Razing, like Shakspere's
pirate, the eighth commandment from the decalogue, the minstrels
praised their chieftains for the very exploits against which the
laws of the country denounced a capital doom. An outlawed
freebooter was to them a more interesting person than the king
of Scotland exerting legal power to punish his depredations ; and
when the characters are contrasted, the latter is always represented
as a ruthless and sanguinary tyrant. Spenser's description of the
bards of Ireland applies, in some degree, to our ancient Border
poets : — " There is among the Irish a certain kind of people called
bards, which are to them instead of poets ; whose profession is
to set forth the praises or dispraises of men, in their poems or
rhymes ; the which are had in such high regard or esteem amongst
them that none dare displease them for fear of running into re-
proach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the
mouths of all men ; for their verses are taken up with a general
applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings by certain
other persons, whose proper function that is, who also receive for
the same great rewards and reputation amongst them."

For similar reasons, flowing from the state of society, the reader
must not expect to find, in the Border ballads, refined sentiment,
and far less elegant expression ; although the style of such compo-
sitions has, in modern bards, been found highly susceptible of both.
But passages might be pointed out, in which the rude minstrel has
melted in natural pathos, or risen into rude energy. Even where
these graces are totally wanting, the interest of the stories them-
selves, and the curious picture of manners which they frequently
present, authorise them to claim some respect from the public.

VARIOUS.] AUTUMNAL FIELD SPORTS. 405

248.— Autumnal Jfielir

VARIOUS.

POETRY has little to do with the field-sports of the present day,
except to express a truthful hatred of those selfish enjoyments
which demoralise the whole agricultural population. Yet we may
find in the Poets many inspiriting pictures of the field-sports of
our forefathers ; and we must never forget that, however these
things have degenerated, the manly exercises of the old English
gentlemen were fitted to nourish the bold spirit of the sturdy
yeomen with whom they lived in honest fellowship. Shakspere
was unquestionably a keen sportsman, and has in many passages
shown the nicest appreciation of what belonged to the excellence
of horse and hound. He knew all the points of the horse, as
may be seen in the noble description in the " Venus and Adonis ;"
he delighted in hounds of the highest breed.

The chase in his day was not a tremendous burst for an hour
or two, whose breathless speed shuts out all sense of beauty in
the sport. There was harmony in every sound of the ancient
hunt — there was poetry in all its associations.

The solemn huntings of princes and great lords, where large
assemblies were convened to chase the deer in spaces enclosed by
nets, but where the cook and the butler were as necessary as the
hunter, were described in stately verse by George Gascoigne.
" The noble art of venerie " seems to have been an admirable
excuse for ease and luxury " under the greenwood tree." But
the open hunting with the country squire's beagles was a more
stirring matter. By daybreak was the bugle sounded ; and from
the spacious offices of the Hall came forth the keepers, leading
their slow-hounds for finding the game, and the foresters with
their greyhounds in leash. Many footmen are there in attend-
ance with their quarter- staffs and hangers. Slowly ride forth the
master and his friends. Neighbours join them on their way to
the wood. There is merriment in their progress, for, as they pass
through the village, they stop before the door of the sluggard,

40 6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

who ought to have been on foot, singing, "Hunt's up to the
day:"—

The hunt is up, the hunt is up, The hounds they cry,

Sing merrily we, the hunt is up j The hunters fly :

The birds they sing, Hey troli-lo, trololilo.

The deer they fling : The hunt is up.

Hey nony, nony-no :

It is a cheering and inspiring tune — the reveillee — awakening
like the " singing " of the lark, or the " lively din " of the cock.
Sounds like those were heard, half-a-century after the youth of
Shakspere, by the student whose poetry scarcely descended to
the common things which surrounded him ; for it was not the
outgushing of the heart over all life and nature ; it was the re-
flection of his own individuality, and the echo of books — beauti-
ful indeed, but not all-comprehensive : —

Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn From the side of some hoar hill,
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, Through the high wood echoing shrill.

MILTON.

To the wood leads the chief huntsman. He has tracked the
hart or doe to the covert on the previous night; and now the
game is to be roused by man and dog. Some of the company
may sing the fine old song, as old as the time of Henry VIII. :—

Blow thy horn, hunter, Then blow thy horn, hunter,

Blow thy horn on high, Then blow thy horn, hunter,

In yonder wood there lieth a doe ; Then blow thy horn, jolly hunter.
In faith she woll not die.

The hart is roused. The hounds have burst out "musical con-
fusion." Soho ! is cried. The greyhounds are unleashed. And
now rush horsemen and footmen over hill, through dingle. A
mile or two of sharp running, and he is again in cover. Again
the keepers beat the thicket with their staves. He is again in the
open field. And so it is long before the treble-mort is sounded ;
and the great mystery of " woodcraft," the anatomy of the venison,
gone through with the nicest art, even to the cutting off a bone
for the raven.

VARIOUS.] A UTUMNAL FIELD SPOR TS. 407

In Coleridge's " Literary Remains," the " Venus and Adonis "
is cited as furnishing a signal example of " that affectionate love
of nature and natural objects, without which no man could have
observed so steadily, or painted so truly and passionately, the
very minutest beauties of the external world." The description
of the hare-hunt is there given at length as a specimen of this
power. A remarkable proof of the completeness as well as
accuracy of Shakspere's description presented itself to our mind,
in running through a little volume, full of talent, published in
1825 — "Essays and Sketches of Character, by the late Richard
Ayton, Esq." There is a paper on hunting, and especially on
hare-hunting. He says — " I am not one of the perfect fox-
hunters of these realms ; but having been in the way of late of
seeing a good deal of various modes of hunting, I would, for the
benefit of the uninitiated, set down the results of my observa-
tions." In this matter he writes with a perfect unconsciousness
that he is describing what any one has described before. But
as accurate an observer had been before him : —

" She (the hare) generally returns to the beat from which she was put up,
running, as all the world knows, in a circle, or something sometimes like it,
we had better say, that we may keep on good terms with the mathematical.
At starting, she tears away at her utmost speed for a mile or more, and dis-
tances the dogs half way ; she then returns, diverging a little to the right or
left, that she may not run into the mouths of her enemies, — a necessity which
accounts for what we call the circularity of her course. Her flight from home
is direct and precipitate ; but on her way back, when she has gained a little
time for consideration and stratagem, she describes a curious labyrinth of
short turnings and windings, as if to perplex the dogs by the intricacy of her
track."

Compare this with Shakspere : —

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles,
How he outruns the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles :

The many musits through the which he goes

Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

Mr Ayton thus goes on : —

408 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

"The hounds, whom we left in full cry, continue their music without re-
mission as long as they are faithful to the scent ; as a summons, it should
seem, like the seamen's cry, to pull together, or keep together, and it is a
certain proof to themselves and their followers that they are in the right way.
On the instant that they are at fault, or lose the scent, they are silent. . .
. . . The weather, in its impression on the scent, is the great father of
' faults ; ' but they may arise from other accidents, even when the day is in
every respect favourable. The intervention of ploughed land, on which the
scent soon cools or evaporates is at least perilous ; but sheep-stains, recently
left by a flock, are fatal : they cut off the scent irrecoverably — making a gap,
as it were, in the clue, in which the dogs have not even a hint for their guid-
ance."

Compare Shakspere again : —

Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ;

And sometimes sorteth with a herd of deer ;

Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear.
For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out ;

Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies,

As if another chase were in the skies.

One more extract from Mr Ay ton : —

"Suppose, then, after the usual rounds, that you see the hare at last (a
sorry mark for so many foes) sorely beleaguered— looking dark and draggled —
and limping heavily along — then stopping to listen — again tottering on a
little — and again stopping ; and at every step, and every pause, hearing the
death-cry grow nearer and louder."

One more comparison, and we have exhausted Shakspere's
description :—

By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,

Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,

To hearken if his foes pursue him still ;

Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch

Turn and return, indenting with the way ;

VARIOUS.] AUTUMNAL FIELD SPORTS. 409

Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay j

For misery is trodden on by many,

And being low, never relieved by any.

Here, then, be it observed, are not only the same objects, the
same accidents, the same movement, in each description, but
the very words employed to convey the scene to the mind are
often the same in each. It would be easy to say that Mr Ayton
copied Shakspere. We believe he did not. There is a sturdy
ingenuousness about his writings which would have led him to
notice the " Venus and Adonis," if he had had it in his mind.
Shakspere and he had each looked minutely and practically upon
the same scene ; and the wonder is, not that Shakspere was an
accurate describer, but that in him the accurate is so thoroughly
fused with the poetical, that it is one and the same life.

Shakspere, in his earliest poem, could not forbear showing the
deep sympathy for suffering which belongs to the real poet.

" Poor Wat " makes us hate all sports which inflict pain upon
the lower animals, making their agonies our amusements. Never
was this holy feeling more earnestly displayed than in Words-

4IO HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

worth's " Hartleap Well ;" which is " a small spring of water,
about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side
of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrig. Its name is
derived from a remarkable Chase."

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ?

The bugles that so joyfully were blown ?
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ;

Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.

The poor hart toils along the mountain side 5

I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died ;

But now the knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn ;

He had no follower, dog nor man, nor boy ;
He neither crack'd his whip nor blew his horn,

But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat,

Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd,
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet

Upon his side the hart was lying stretch'd ;

His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd

The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,

(Never had living man such joyful lot !)
Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west,

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill (it was at least

Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found

Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now

Such sight was never seen by living eyes :
Three leaps have borne him from his lofty brow

Down to the very fountain where he lies."

To commemorate the wondrous leap of the gallant stag, Sir
"Walter raised three pillars where the turf was grazed by the stag's

VARTOUS.J AUTUMNAL FIELD SPORTS. 411

hoofs, and he built a pleasure-house, and planted a bower, and
made a cup of stone for the fountain.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,

Came up the hollow ; — him did I accost,

And what this place might be I then inquired.

The shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told

Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
" A jolly place," said he, " in times of old !

But something ails it now ; the spot is cursed.

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood —

Some say that they are beeches, others elms —
These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood,

The finest palace of a hundred realms.

The arbour does its own condition tell ;

You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ;
But as to the great lodge ! you might as well

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,

Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,

This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

Some say that here a murder has been done,

And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part,

I 've guess'd, when I 've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy hart.

What thoughts must through the creature's brain have pass'd !

Even from the topmost stone, upon the step,
Are but three bounds — and look, sir, at this last ;

O master ! it has been a cruel leap.

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ;

And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the hart might have to love this place,

And come and make his death-bed near the well.

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,

Lull'd by this fountain in the summer-tide ;
This water was perhaps the first he drank

When he had wander'd from his mother's side.

412 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BURTON

In April here beneath the scented thoni

He heard the birds their morning carols sing :

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ;

The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."

" Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well ;

Small difference lies between thy creed and mine j
This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ;

His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine.

The Being that is in the clouds and air,

That is in the green leaves among the groves,

Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creature whom He loves.

The Pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom ;

But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
That what we are, and have been, may be known ;

But at the coming of the milder day,

These monuments shall -all be overgrown.

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals,

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

WORDSWORTH.

249— |3Umcirhs 0f

BURTON.

[WE give an extract from "The Anatomy of Melancholy," the book of which
Dr Johnson said that it was the only book that took him out of his bed two
hours before he wished to rise. This was higher praise than that of Byron,
who called this book "the most amus'ing and instructive medley of quotations
and classical anecdotes I ever perused." If Burton had only poured forth his
singular feelings in his quaint and sometimes eloquent language, and had less

BURTON.] REMEDIES OF DISCONTENTS. 413

skilfully or less profusely intermingled his scholarship, the book must still have
been regarded as a remarkable work. As it is, there is nothing like it in our
language. We have made no attempt to give a literal translation of the quota-
tions ; for the author himself often does so, and almost invariably repeats the
sentiments in English, so that his meaning cannot be mistaken. Robert Bur-
ton was born at Lindley, Leicestershire, in 1576, and was a student of Christ-
church, Oxford, in which college he died in 1640.]

Discontents and grievances are either general or particular;
general are wars, plagues, dearths, famine, fires, inundations, un-
seasonable weather, epidemical diseases which afflict whole king-
doms, territories, cities : or peculiar to private men, as cares,
crosses, losses, death of friends, poverty, want, sickness, orbities,
injuries, abuses, &c. Generally all discontent, homines quatimur
fortunes salo. No condition free, quisque suos patimur manes.
Even in the midst of our mirth and jollity, there is some grudg-
ing, some complaint ; as he saith, our whole life is a glucupicron,
a bitter sweet passion, honey and gall mixed together ; we are all
miserable and discontent, who can deny it? If all, and that it be
a common calamity, an inevitable necessity, all distressed, then,
as Cardan infers, Who art thou that hopest to go free 1 Why
dost thou not grieve thou art a mortal man, and not governor of
the world 1 Ferre, quam sortem pathmttir omnes, nemo recuset. If
it be common to all, why should one man be more disquieted
than another ? If thou alone wert distressed, it were indeed more
irksome and less to be endured ; but when the calamity is com-
mon, comfort thyself with this, thou hast more fellows, Solamen
miseris socios habnisse doloris, 'tis not thy sole case, and why
shouldst thou be so impatient1? Ay, but alas ! we are more
miserable than others, what shall we do 1 Besides private mise-
ries, we live in perpetual fear, and danger of common enemies ;
we have Bellona's whips, and pitiful out-cries for epithalamiums ;
for pleasant music, that fearful noise of ordnance, drums, and
warlike trumpets still sounding in our ears ; instead of nuptial
torches, we have firing of towns and cities ; for triumphs, lamen-
tations ; for joy, tears. So it is, and so it was, and ever will be.
He that refuseth to see and hear, to suffer this, is not fit to live in

414 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [BURTON.

this world, and knows not the common condition of all men, to
whom, so long as they live, with a reciprocal course, joys and
sorrows are annexed, and succeed one another. It is inevitable,
it may not be avoided, and why then shouldst thou be so much
troubled? Grave nihil est homini quod fert necessitas, as Tully
deems out of an old poet, that which is necessary cannot be
grievous. If it be so, then comfort thyself with this, that whether
thou wilt or no, it must be endured ; make a virtue of necessity,
and conform thyself to undergo it. Si longa est> levis est ; sigravis
es^ brevis est. If it be long, 'tis light ; if grievous, it cannot last.
It will away, dies dolorem minuit, and if naught else, yet time
will wear it out ; custom will ease it ; oblivion is a common medi-
cine for all losses, injuries, griefs, and detriments whatsoever, and,
when they are once past, this commodity comes of infelicity, it
makes the rest of our life sweeter unto us. Atque hac olim mem-
inisse juvabit, the privation and want of a thing many times makes
it more pleasant and delightsome than before it was. We must
not think, the happiest of us all, to escape here without some
misfortunes —

" Usqite adeb nulla est sincera voluptas,
Solicitum aliquid lalis intervenit"

Heaven and earth are much unlike ; those heavenly bodies, in-
deed, are freely carried in their orbs without any impediment or
interruption, to continue their course for innumerable ages, and
make their conversions : but men are urged with many difficul-
ties, and have divers hindrances, oppositions, still crossing, inter-
rupting their endeavours and desires, and no mortal man is free
from this law of nature. We must not, therefore, hope to have
all things answer our own expectation, to have a continuance of
good success and fortunes. Fortuna nunquam perpetiib est lona.
And as Minutius Felix, the Roman consul, told that insulting
Coriolanus, drunk with his good fortunes, look not for that suc-
cess thou hast hitherto had. It never yet happened to any man
since the beginning of the world, nor ever will, to have all things
according to his desire, or to whom fortune was never opposite
and adverse. Even so it fell out to him as he foretold. And so

BORTON.] REMEDIES OF DISCONTENTS. 415

to others, even to that happiness of Augustus ; though he were
Jupiter's almoner Pluto's treasurer, Neptune's admiral, it could not
secure him. Such was Alcibiades's fortune, Narsetes, that great
Gonsalvus, and most famous men's, that, as Jovius concludes,
it is almost fatal to great princes, through their own default or
otherwise circumvented with envy and malice, to lose their
honours, and die contumeliously. 'Tis so, still hath been, and
ever will be, Nihil est ab omni parte beatum,

" There's no protection is so absolute,
That some impurity doth not pollute."

Whatsoever is under the moon is subject to corruption, altera-
tions ; and so long as thou livest upon earth look not for other.
Thou shalt not here find peaceable and cheerful days, quiet
times, but rather clouds, storms, calumnies ; such is our fate.
And as those errant planets, in their distinct orbs, have their
several motions, sometimes direct, stationary, retrograde, in
apogeo, perigeo, oriental, occidental, combust, feral, free, and
as our astrologers will have their fortitudes and debilities, by
reason of those good and bad irradiations, conferred to each
other's site in the heavens, in their terms, houses, case, detri-
ments, &c. ; so we rise and fall in this world, ebb and flow, in and
out, reared and dejected, lead a troublesome life, subject to many
accidents and casualties of fortunes, variety of passions, infirmi-
ties, as well from ourselves as others.

Yea, but thou thinkest thou art more miserable than the rest,
other men are happy in respect of thee, their miseries are but
flea-bitings to thine ; thou alone art unhappy ; none so bad
as thyself. Yet if, as Socrates said : All the men in the world
should come and bring their grievances together, of body,
mind, fortune, sores, ulcers, madness, epilepsies, agues, and all
those common calamities of beggary, want, servitude, imprison-
ment, and lay them on a heap to be equally divided, wouldst
thou share alike, and take thy portion, or be as thou art 1 With-
out question thou wouldst be as thou art. If some Jupiter should
say, to give us all content —

41 6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BURTON.

" Jam faciam quod vultis .' eris tu, qui modb miles,
Mercator; tu, consultics mode), rusticus ; hinc vos,
Vos hine, mutatis discedite partibus ; eial
Quid statis ? nolint. "

" Well, be 't so, then : you, master soldier,
Shall be a merchant : you, sir lawyer,
A country gentleman : go you to this,
That side you; why stand ye? It's well as 'tis."

Every man knows his own but not others' defects and miseries ;
and 'tis the nature of all men still to reflect upon themselves their
own misfortunes, not to examine or consider other men's, not to
confer themselves with others : to recount their miseries, but not
their good gifts, fortunes, benefits, which they have ; to ruminate
on their adversity, but not once to think on their prosperity, not
what they have, but what they want : to look still on them that
go before, but not on those infinite numbers that come after ;
whereas many a man would think himself in heaven, a petty
prince, if he had but the least part of that fortune which thou so
much repinest at, abhorrest, and accountest a most vile and
wretched estate. How many thousands want that which thou
hast 1 How many myriads of poor slaves, captives, of such as
work day and night in coal-pits, tin-mines, with sore toil to main-
tain a poor living, of such as labour in body and mind, live in ex-
treme anguish and pain, all which thou art free from ? O fortu-
natos minium bona si sua normt ; thou art most happy if thou
couldst be content, and acknowledge thy happiness ; Rem carendo,
nonfruendo, cognoscimus ; when thou shalt hereafter come to want
that which thou now loathest, abhorrest, and art weary of, and
tired with, when 'tis past, thou wilt say thou wast most happy ;
and, after a little miss, wish with all thine heart thou hadst the
same content again, mightst lead but such a life, a world for such
a life ; the remembrance of it is pleasant. Be silent, then, rest
satisfied, desine, intuensque in aliorum infortunia, solare mentem ;
comfort thyself with other men's misfortunes, and as the moldi-
warpe in .^Esop told the fox complaining for want of a tail, and
the rest of his companions, tacete, quando me oculis captum vidctis :

BURTON.! REMEDIES OF DISCONTENTS. 417

you complain of toys, but I am blind, be quiet. I say to thee,
Be thou satisfied. It is recorded of the hares that with a general
consent they went to drown themselves, out of a feeling of their
misery ; but when they saw a company of frogs more fearful than
they were, they began to take courage and comfort again. Confer
thine estate with others. Similes aliorum respice casus, mitius ista
feres. Be content, and rest satisfied ; for thou art well in respect
of others ; be thankful for that which thou hast, that God hath
done for thee ; He hath not made thee a monster, a beast, a base
creature, as He might, but a man, a Christian, such a man ; con-
sider aright of it, thou art full well as thou art. Qiiicquid vult,
habere nemo potest, no man can have what he will : Illud potest
nolle, quod non habet, he may choose whether he will desire that
which he hath not : Thy lot is fallen, make the best of it. If we
should all sleep at all times, (as Endymion is said to have done,)
who then were happier than his fellow 1 Our life is but short, a
very dream, and while we look about, immortalitas adest, eternity
is at hand. Oui life is a pilgrimage on earth, which wise men
pass with great alacrity. If thou be in woe, sorrow, want, dis-
tress, in pain or sickness, think of that of our apostle, God chas-
tiseth them whom He loveth : They that sow in tears, shall reap
in joy, Psal. cxxvi. 6. As the furnace proveth the potter's vessel,
so doth temptation try men's thoughts, Eccl. xxv. 5. 'Tis for thy
good : Periisses, nisi periisses : Hadst thou not been so visited
thou hadst been utterly undone ; as gold in the fire, so men are
tried in adversity. Tribulatio ditat ; and, which Camerarius hath
well shadowed in an emblem of a thresher and corn ;

" Si tritura absit, paleis sunt abdita grana,
JVos crux mundanis separat a paleis : "

u As threshing separates from straw the corn,
By crosses from the world's chaff are we borne."

'Tis the very same which Chrysostome comments, Horn. 2, in 3
Mat. Corn is not separated but by threshing, nor men from
worldly impediments but by tribulation. 'Tis that which Cyprian
ingeminates, Senti 4, De Immort, 'Tis that which Hierom, which

VOL. III. 2 D

41 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BURTON.

all the Fathers inculcate, so we are catechised for eternity. 'Tis
that which the proverb insinuates, Nocumentum documentum. 'Tis
that which all the world rings into our ears. Dens unicum habet
Filium sine peccato, nullum sine flagello : God, saith Austin, hath
one Son without sin, none without correction. An expert seaman
is tried in a tempest, a runner in a race, a captain in a battle, a
valiant man in adversity, a Christian in temptation and misery.
Basil, Horn. 8. We are sent as .so many soldiers into this world,
to strive with it, the flesh, the devil ; our life is a warfare, and who
knows it not. Non est ad astro, mollis e terris via: and therefore
peradventure this world here is made troublesome unto us, that,
as Gregory notes, we should not be delighted by the way, and
forget whither we are going.

" Ite, nun c fortes, uba celsa magni

Ducit exempli via : cur inertes

Terga nudatis ? super ata tellus

Sidera donat"

Go on then merrily to heaven. If the way be troublesome, and
you in misery, in many grievances ; on the other side you have
many pleasant sports, objects, sweet smells, delightsome tastes,
music, meats, herbs, flowers, &c., to recreate your senses. Or
put the case, thou art now forsaken of the world, dejected, con-
temned, yet comfort thyself, as it was said to Hagar in the wilder-
ness, God sees thee ; He takes notice of thee : there is a God
above that can vindicate thy cause, that can relieve thee. And
surely, Seneca thinks, He takes delight in seeing thee. The gods
are well pleased when they see great men contending with ad-
versity, as we are to see men fight, or a man with a beast But
these are toys in respect : Behold, saith he, a spectacle worthy of
God : a good man contented with his estate. A tyrant is the
best sacrifice to Jupiter, as the ancients held, and his best object
a contented mind. For thy part then rest satisfied, cast all thy
care on Him, thy burden on Him, rely on Him, trust in Him, and
He shall nourish thee, care for thee, give thee thine heart's desire ;
say with David, God is our hope and strength, in troubles ready

DRYDEN.] THE GOOD PARSON. ^jg

to be found, PsaL xlvi. i. For they that trust in the Lord shall
be as Mount Sion, which cannot be removed, PsaL cxxiv. 2. As
the mountains are about Jerusalem, so is the Lord about His
people, from henceforth and for ever.

250.— j .

DRYDEN.

A PARISH priest was of the pilgrim train ;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor,
(As God hath clothed his own ambassador ;)
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd ; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast ;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense :
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see :
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity :
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd ;
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charm'd ;
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky :
And oft with holy hymns he charm'd their ears,
(A music more melodious than the spheres ;)
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre ; and after him he sung the best.
He bore his great commission in his look :
But sweetly temper'd awe ; and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell,

420 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DRYDEN.

And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal ;
But, on eternal mercy loved to dwell.
He taught the gospel rather than the law ;
And forced himself to drive ; but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds : but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared ;
But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder (heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before th' Almighty fly :
Those but proclaim His style, and disappear ;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.

The tithes his parish freely paid he took ;
But never sued, or cursed with bell or book.
With patience bearing wrong, but offering none ;
Since every man is free to lose his own.
The country churls, according to their kind,
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind,)
The less he sought his offerings, pinch'd the more,
And praised a priest contented to be poor.

Yet of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare j
For mortified he was to that degree,
A poorer than himself he would not see.
"True priests," he said, "and preachers of the word,
Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord ;
Nothing was theirs ; but all the public store ;
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor.
Who, should they steal for want of his relief,
He judged himself accomplice with the thief."

Wide was his parish : not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house ;

DRYDEN.] THE GOOD PARSON.

Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distress'd ;
Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.

All this, the good old man perform'd alone,
Nor spared his pains ; for curate he had none.
Nor dost he trust another with his care ;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair,
To chaffer for preferment with his gold,
Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold ;
But duly watch'd his flock, by night and day:
And from the prowling wolf redeem'd the prey :
And hungry sent the wily fox away.

The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd :
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.
His preaching much, but more his practice wroughtj
(A living sermon of the truths he taught ;)
For this by rules severe his life he squared ;
That all might see the doctrine which they heard :
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest,
(The gold of heaven, who bear the God impress'd :>
For, when the precious coin is kept unclean.
The sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

The prelate for his holy life he prized j
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show :
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,
These marks of church and churchmen he design'd,
And living taught, and dying left behind.
The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn ;
In purple he was crucified, not born.

422 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DRYDEN.

They who contend for place and high degree,
Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.

Not but he knew the signs of earthly power
Might well become Saint Peter's successor •.
The holy father holds a double reign,
The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain.
Such was the saint ; who shone with every grace,
Reflecting, Moses like, his Maker's face,
God saw his image lively was express 'd ;
And His own work, as in creation bless'd.

The tempter saw him too with envious eye ;
And, as on Job, demanded leave to try.
He took the time when Richard was disposed.
And high and low with happy Harry closed.
This prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood !
. Near though he was, yet not the next in blood.
Had Richard unconstrain'd resign'd the throne,
A king can give no more than is his own :
The title stood entail'd, had Richard had a son.

Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside,
Where all submitted, none the battle tried.
The senseless plea of right by Providence
Was, by a flattering priest, invented since ;
And lasts no longer than the present sway ;
But justifies the next who comes in play.

The people's right remains ; let those who dare
Dispute their power, when they the judges are.

He join'd not in their choice, because he knew
Worse might, and often did, from change ensue :
Much to himself he thought ; but little spoke j
And, undeprived, his benefice forsook.

Now, through the land, his care of souls he stretch'd,
And like a primitive apostle preach'd.

THE HURRICANE. 433

Still cheerful ; ever constant to his call ;

By many follow'd ; loved by most, admired by all,

With what he begg'd, his brethren he relieved,

And gave the charities himself received.

Gave, while he taught ; and edified the more,

Because he show'd, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor.

He went not with the crowd to see a shrine ;
But fed us by the way with food divine.

In deference to his virtues, I forbear
To show you what the rest in orders were :
This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright,
He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light

251.—

AUDUBON.

[JOHN JAMES AUDUBON, the great American Naturalist, was born in 1780,
and died in 1851. Till the close of his life he continued labouring as a
draughtsman and a writer upon the zoology of his country. Beautifully has
he described the scenes of his labours, " amid the tall grass of the far extended
prairies of the west, in the solemn forests of the north, on the heights of mid-
land mountains, by the shores of the boundless ocean, and on the bosoms of
our vast bays, lakes, and rivers, — searching for things hidden since the crea-
tion of this wondrous world from all but the Indian who has roamed in the
gorgeous but melancholy wilderness."]

Various portions of our country have, at different periods, suf-
fered severely from the influence of violent storms of wind, some
of which have been known to traverse nearly the whole extent
of the United States, and to leave such deep impressions in their
wake as will not easily be forgotten. Having witnessed one of
these awful phenomena, in all its grandeur, I will attempt to
describe it. The recollection of that astonishing revolution of
the ethereal element even now brings with it so disagreeable a
sensation, that I feel as if about to be affected by a sudden stop-
page of the circulation of my blood.

424 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

I had left the village of Shawaney, situated on the banks of
the Ohio, on my return from Henderson, which is also situated
on the banks of the same beautiful stream. The weather was
pleasant, and I thought not warmer than usual at that season.
My horse was jogging quietly along, and my thoughts were for
once at least in the course of my life entirely engaged in com-
mercial speculations. I had forded Highland Creek, and was on
the eve of entering a tract of bottom land or valley that lay be-
tween it and Canoe Creek, when on a sudden I remarked a great
difference in the aspect of the heavens. A hazy thickness had
overspread the country, and I for some time expected an earth-
quake, but my horse exhibited no propensity to stop and prepare
for such an occurrence. I had nearly arrived at the verge of the
valley, when I though fit to stop near a brook, and dismounted to
quench the thirst which had come upon me.

I was leaning on my knees, with my lips about to touch the
water, when, from my proximity to the earth, I heard a distant
murmuring sound of an extraordinary nature. I drank, however,
and as I rose on my feet, looked towards the south-west, when I
observed a yellowish oval spot, the appearance of which was
quite new to me. Little time was left to me for consideration,
as the next moment a smart breeze began to agitate the taller
trees. It increased to an unexpected height, and already the
smaller branches and twigs were seen falling in a slanting direc-
tion towards the ground. Two minutes had scarcely elapsed,
when the whole forest before me was in fearful motion. Here
and there, where one tree pressed against another, a creaking
noise was produced, similar to that occasioned by the viole-nt
gusts which sometimes sweep over the country. Turning instinct-
ively toward the direction from which the wind blew, I saw, to
my great astonishment, that the noblest trees of the forest bent
their lofty heads for a while, and unable to stand against the
blast, wrere falling to pieces. First, the branches were broken off
with a crackling noise, then went the upper part of the massy
trunks, and in many places whole trees of gigantic size were fall-
ing entire to the ground. So rapid was the progress of the storm,

AUDUBON.] THE HURRICANE. 425

that before I could think of taking measures to insure my safety,
the hurricane was passing opposite the place where I stood.
Never can I forget the scene which at that moment presented
itself. The tops of the trees were seen moving in the strangest
manner, in the central current of the tempest, which carried along
with it a mingled mass of twigs and foliage that completely ob-
scured the view. Some of the largest trees were seen bending
and writhing under the gale ; others suddenly snapped across,
and many, after a momentary resistance, fell uprooted to the
earth. The mass of branches, twigs, foliage, and dust that moved
through the air, was whirled onwards like a cloud of feathers, and,
on passing, disclosed a wide space filled with fallen trees, naked
stumps, and heaps of shapeless ruins, which marked the path of
the tempest. This space was about a fourth of a mile in breadth,
and to my imagination resembled the dried-up bed of the Missis-
sippi, with its thousands of planters and sawyers strewed, in the
sand, and inclined in various degrees. The horrible noise re-
sembled that of the great cataracts of Niagara, and as it howled
along in the track of the desolating tempest produced a feeling in
my mind which it is impossible to describe.

The principal force of the hurricane was now over, although
millions of twigs and small branches, that had been brought from
a great distance, were seen following the blast, as if drawn on-
wards by some mysterious power. They were floated in the air
for some hours after, as if supported by the thick mass of dust
that rose high above the ground. The sky had now a greenish
lurid hue, and an extremely disagreeable sulphureous odour was
diffused in the atmosphere. I waited in amazement, having sus-
tained no material injury, until nature at length resumed her
wonted aspect. For some moments I felt undetermined whether
I should return to Morgan town, or attempt to force my way
through the wrecks of the tempest. My business, however, being
of an urgent nature, I ventured into the path of the storm, and,
after encountering innumerable difficulties, succeeded in crossing
it. I was obliged to lead my horse by the bridle to enable him
to leap over the fallen trees, whilst I scrambled over or under

426 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS [D'IsRAELi.

them in the best way I could, at times so hemmed in by the
broken tops and tangled branches, as almost to become desperate.
On arriving at my house, I gave an account of what I had seen,
when, to my surprise, I was told that there had been very little
wind in the neighbourhood, although in the streets and gardens
many branches and twigs had fallen in a manner which excited
great surprise.

Many wondrous accounts of the devastating effect of this
hurricane were circulated in the country after its occurrence.
Some log-houses, we were told, had been overturned, and their
inmates destroyed. One person informed me that a wire sifter
had been conveyed by the gust to a distance of many miles.
Another had found a cow lodged in the fork of a large half-broken
tree. But as I am disposed to relate only what I have myself
seen, I will not lead you into the region of romance, but shall
content "myself by saying that much damage was done by this
awful visitation. The valley is yet a desolate place, overgrown
with briers and bushes, thickly entangled amidst the tops and
trunks of the fallen trees, and is the resort of ravenous animals,
to which they betake themselves when pursued by man, or after
they have committed their depredations on the farms of the sur-
rounding district. I have crossed the path of the storm, at a dis-
tance of a hundred miles from the spot where I witnessed its
fury, and again, four hundred miles farther off, in the state of
Ohio. Lastly, I observed traces of its ravages on the summits of
the mountains connected with the Great Pine Forest of Pennsyl-
vania, three hundred miles beyond the place last mentioned. In
all those different parts, it appeared to me not to have exceeded
a quarter of a mile in breadth.

252.— Kfre f ntoiwdbir 0f fe mrtr

D'ISRAELI.

[MR ISAAC D'ISRAELI, who died at the age of eighty-two, on Jan. 19, 1848,
is principally known by his chief work, "The Curiosities of Literature," pub-

DISRAELI.] THE INTRODUCTION OF TEA AND COFFEE. 427

lished in 1791. This pleasant, gossiping miscellany, the result of extensive
reading, is liot distinguished for any of the higher qualities of authorship. It
is neither brilliant nor profound. But, if not always accurate, it is never
offensive ; and we read the book with the same delight that we listen without
effort to an agreeable and unpretending story-teller, who is fuller of his sub-
ject than of himself. His son, the Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, has
earned for himself laurels, not only in the fields of literature, but also in the
senate.]

It is said that the frozen Norwegians, on the first sight of roses,
dared not touch what they conceived were trees budding with
fire ; and the natives of Virginia, the first time they seized on a
quantity of gunpowder which belonged to the English colony,
sowed it for grain, expecting to reap a plentiful crop of com-
bustion by the next harvest, to blow away the whole colony.

In our own recollection, strange imaginations impeded the first
period of vaccination ; when some families, terrified by the warn-
ing of a physician, conceived their race would end in a species of
Minotaurs.

We smile at the simplicity of the men of nature, for their mis-
taken notions at the first introduction among them of exotic
novelties; and yet, even in civilised Europe, how long a time
those whose profession, or whose reputation, regulate public
opinion, are influenced by vulgar prejudices, often disguised under
the imposing form of science ! and when their ludicrous absurdi-
ties and obstinate prejudices enter into the matters of history, it
is then we discover that they were only imposing on themselves
and on others.

It is hardly credible, that on the first introduction of the Chinese
leaf, which now affords our daily refreshment ; or the American
leaf, whose sedative fumes made it so long a universal favourite ;
or the Arabian berry, whose aroma exhilarates its European
votaries ; that the use of these harmless novelties should have
spread consternation in the nations of Europe, and have been an-
athematised by the terrors and the fictions of some of the learned.
Yet this seems to have happened. Patin, who wrote so furi-
ously against the introduction of antimony, spread the same alarm

428 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [D'IsRAELi

at the use of tea, which he calls " 1'impertinente nouveaute' du
siecle." In Germany, Hanneman considered tea-dealers as im-
moral members of society, lying in wait for men's purses and
lives ; and Dr Duncan, in his treatise on hot liquors, suspected
that the virtues attributed to tea were merely to encourage the
importation.

Many virulent pamphlets were published against the use of this
shrub, from various motives. In 1670, a Dutch writer says it was
ridiculed in Holland under the name of hay-water. " The pro-
gress of this famous plant," says an ingenious writer, " has been
something like the progress of truth ; suspected at first, though
very palatable to those who had courage to taste it -9 resisted as
it encroached j abused as its popularity seemed to spread ; and
established its triumph at last, in cheering the whole land from
the palace to the cottage, only by the slow and resistless efforts of
time and its own virtues." — "Edinburgh Review," 1816.

The history of the tea-shrub, written by Dr Lettsom, is usually
referred to on this subject : I consider it little more than a plagi-
arism on Dr Short's learned and curious " Dissertation on Tea,5'
1730, 4to. Lettsom has superadded the solemn trifling of his
moral and medical advice.

Those now common beverages are all of recent origin in
Europe ; neither the ancients nor those of the middle ages tasted
of this luxury. The first accounts we find of the use of this shrub
are the casual notices of travellers, who seem to have tasted it, and
sometimes not to have liked it. A Russian ambassador, in 1639,
who resided at the Court of the Mogul, declined accepting a large
present of tea for the czar, " as it would only encumber him
with a commodity for which he had no use." The appearance of
" a black water/' and an acrid taste, seem not to have recom-
mended it to the German Olearius, in 1633. Dr Short has re-
corded an anecdote of a stratagem of the Dutch in their second
voyage to China, by which they at first obtained their tea without
disbursing money ; they carried with them great store of dried
sage, and bartered it with the Chinese for tea ; and received
three or four pounds of tea for one of sage ; but at length the

D'IsRAELi.] THE INTRODUCTION OF TEA AND COFFEE. 429

Dutch could not export a sufficient quantity of sage to supply
their demand. This fact, however, proves how deeply the ima-
gination is concerned with our palate, for the Chinese, affected by
the exotic novelty, considered our sage to be more precious than
their tea.

The first introduction of tea into Europe is not ascertained ;
according to the common accounts, it came into England from
Holland, in 1666, when Lord Arlington and Lord Ossory brought
over a small quantity : the custom of drinking tea became fashion-
able, and a pound weight sold then for sixty shillings. This ac-
count, however, is by no means satisfactory. I have heard of
Oliver Cromwell's tea-pot in the possession of the collector, and
this will derange the chronology of those writers who are per-
petually copying the researches of others, without confirming or
correcting them.

Amidst the rival contests of the Dutch and the English East
India Companies, the honour of introducing its use into Europe
may be claimed by both. Dr Short conjectures that tea might
have been known in England as far back as the reign of James
I., for the first fleet set out in 1600 : but had the use of this
shrub been known, the novelty would have been chronicled
among our dramatic writers, whose works are the annals of our
prevalent tastes and humours. It is rather extraordinary that our
East India Company should not have discovered the use of this
shrub in their early adventures ; yet it certainly was not known in
England so late as 1641, for in a scarce " Treatise of Warm Beer,"
where the title indicates the author's design to recommend hot in
preference to cold drinks, he refers to tea only by quoting the
Jesuit Maffei's account, that " they of China do for the most part
drink the strained liquor of an herb called C/iia, hot." The word
Cha is the Portugese term for tea, retained to this day, which they
borrowed from the Japanese : while our intercourse with the
Chinese made us, no doubt, adopt their term Theh, now prevalent
throughout Europe, with the exception of the Portugese. The
Chinese origin is still preserved in the term Bohca, tea which
comes from the country of Vouhi; and that of Hyson was the

43° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [D'ISRAELI.

name of the most considerable Chinese then concerned in the
trade.

The best account of the early use, and the prices of tea in
England, appears in the hand-bill of one who may be called our
first Tea-maker. This curious handbill bears no date, but as
Han way ascertained that the price was sixty shillings in 1660, this
bill must have been dispersed 'about that period.

Thomas Garway, in Exchange Alley, tobacconist and coffee,
man, was the first who sold and retailed tea, recommending it for
the cure of all disorders. The following shop-bill is more curious
than any historical account we have : —

" Tea in England hath been sold in the leaf for six pounds, and
sometimes for ten pounds the pound weight, and in respect of its
former scarceness and dearness it hath been only used as a re-
galia in high treatments and entertainments, and presents made
thereof to princes and grandees, till the year 1657. The said
Garway did purchase a quantity thereof, and first publicly sold
the tea in leaf or drink, made according to the directions of the
most knowing merchants into those Eastern countries. On the
knowledge of the said Garway's continued care and industry in
obtaining the best tea, and making drink thereof, veiy many
noblemen, physicians, merchants, &c., have ever since sent to
him for the said leaf, and daily resort to his house to drink the
drink thereof. He sells tea from 165-. to 50^. a pound."

Probably tea was not in general use domestically so late as in
1687 ; for in the diary of Henry, Earl of Clarendon, he registers
that " Pere Couplet supped with me, and after supper we had tea,
which he said was really as good as any he had drunk in China."
Had his lordship been in the general habit of drinking tea, he had
not, probably, made it a subject for his diary.

While the honour of introducing tea may be disputed between
the English and the Dutch, that of coffee remains between the
English and the French. Yet an Italian intended to have occu-
pied the place of honour : that admirable traveller, Pietro della
Valle, writing from Constantinople in 1615, to a Roman, his
fellow-countryman, informing him, that he should teach Europe

D'IsRAELi.J THE INTRODUCTION OF TEA AND COFFEE. 431

in what manner the Turks took what he calls " Cahu'e" or as the
word is written in an Arabic and English pamphlet, printed at
Oxford, in 1659, on "the nature of the drink Kauhi or coffee."
As this celebrated traveller lived in 1652, it may excite surprise that
the first cup of coffee was not drunk at Rome : this remains for
the discovery of some member of the " Arcadian Society." Our
own Purchas, at the time that Valle wrote, was also " a Pilgrim,"
and well knew what was " Cqffa? which " they drank as hot as
they can endure it ; it is as black as soot, and tastes not much un-
like it ; good they say for digestion and mirth."

It appears, by Le Grand's " Vie Privee des Frangois," that the
celebrated Thevenot, in 1658, gave coffee after dinner; but it was
considered as the whim of a traveller ; neither the thing itself nor
its appearance was inviting : it was probably attributed by the gay
to the humour of a vain philosophical traveller. But ten years
afterwards a Turkish ambassador at Paris made the beverage
highly fashionable. The elegance of the equipage recommended
it to the eye, and charmed the women : the brilliant porcelain
cups, in which it was poured, the napkins fringed with gold, and the
Turkish slaves on their knees presenting it to the ladies, seated on
the ground on cushions, turned the heads of the Parisian dames.
This elegant introduction made the exotic beverage a subject of
conversation, and in 1672, an Armenian at Paris, at the fair-time,
opened a coffee-house. But the custom still prevailed to sell beer
and wine, and to smoke and mix with indifferent company in their
first imperfect coffee-houses. A Florentine, one Procope, cele-
brated in his days as the arbiter of taste in this department, in-
structed by the error of the Armenian, invented a superior estab-
lishment, and introduced ices : he embellished his apartment,
and those who had avoided the offensive coffee-houses, repaired
to Procope's, where literary men, artists, and wits resorted, to
inhale the fresh and fragrant steam. Le Grand says, that this
establishment holds a distinguished place in the literary history of
the times. It was at the coffee-house of Du Laurent that Saurin,
La Motte, Danchet, Boindin, Rousseau, &c., met ; but the mild
steams of the aromatic berry could not mollify the acerbity of so

432 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CAVE.

many rivals, and the witty malignity of Rousseau gave birth to
those famous couplets on all the coffee-drinkers, which occasioned
his misfortunes and his banishment.

Such is the history of the first use of coffee and its houses in
Paris. We, however, had the use before even the time of Theve-
not ; for an English Turkish merchant brought a Greek servant in
1652, who, knowing how to roast and make it, opened a house to
sell it publicly. I have also discovered his hand-bill, in which
he sets forth,

" The vertue of the coffee-drink, first publiquely made and sold
in England, by Pasqua Rosee, in St Michael's Alley, Cornhill, at
the sign of his own head."

For about twenty years after the introduction of coffee in this
kingdom, we find a continued series of invectives against its
adoption, both in medicinal and domestic views. The use of
coffee, indeed, seems to have excited more notice, and to have
had a greater influence on the manners of the people, than that
of tea. It seems at first to have been more universally used, as it
still is on the Continent ; and its use is connected with a resort
for the idle and the curious : the history of coffee-houses is often
that of the manners, the morals, and the politics of a people.
Even in its native country the government discovered that extra-
ordinary fact, and the use of the Arabian berry was more than
once forbidden where it grows j for Ellis, in his " History of
Coffee," 1774, refers to an Arabian MS. in the King of France's
library, which shows that coffee-houses in Asia were sometimes
suppressed. The same fate happened on its introduction into
England.

253.— ©f %

CAVE.

TIME is a circumstance no less inseparable from religious actions
than place, for man consisting of a soul and body cannot always
be actually engaged in the service of God : that is the privilege

CAVE.] OF THE LOR&S-DA Y. 433

of angels, and souls freed from the fetters of mortality. So long
as we are here, we must worship God with respect to our present
state, and consequently of necessity have some definite and par-
ticular time to do it in. Now, that a man might not be left to a
floating uncertainty in a matter of so great importance, in all ages
and nations men have been guided by the very dictates of nature
to pitch upon some certain seasons, wherein to assemble and meet
together to perform the public offices of religion. What and how
many were the public festivals instituted and observed, either
amongst Jews or Gentiles, I am not concerned to take notice of.
For the ancient Christians, they ever had their peculiar seasons,
their solemn and stated times of meeting together to perform the
common duties of divine worship ; of which, because the Lord's-
day challenges the precedency of all the rest, we shall begin first
with that. And being unconcerned in all the controversies which
in the late times were raised about it, I shall only note some in-
stances of the piety of Christians in reference to this day, which
I have observed in passing through the writers of those times.

For the name of this day of public worship, it is sometimes,
especially by Justin Martyr and Tertullian, called Sunday, because
it happened upon that day of the week which by the heathens
was dedicated to the sun ; and therefore as being best known to
them, the Fathers commonly made use of it in their Apologies to
the heathen governors. This title continued after the world be-
came Christians, and seldom it is that it passes under any other
name in the imperial edicts of the first Christian emperors. But
the more proper and prevailing name was K^/ax'/j, or Dies Do-
minica, the Lord's-day, as it is called by St John himself, as being
that day of the week whereon our Lord made His triumphant re-
turn from the dead. This, Justin Martyr assures us, was the
original of the title. " Upon Sunday," says he, " we all assemble
and meet together, as being the first day wherein God, part-
ing the darkness from the rude chaos, created the world, and
the same day whereon Jesus Christ our Saviour rose again from
the dead ; for He was crucified the day before Saturday, and the
day after (which is Sunday) He appeared to His apostles and

VOL. III. 2 E

434 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CAVE.

disciples;" by this means observing a kind of analogy and pro-
portion with the Jewish Sabbath, which had been instituted by
God himself. For as that day was kept as a commemoration of
God's Sabbath, or resting from the works of creation, so was this
set apart to religious uses, as the solemn memorial of Christ's
resting from the work of our redemption in this world, completec
upon the day of His resurrection. Which brings into my min<
that custom of theirs so universally common in those days, tl
whereas at other times they kneeled at prayers, on the Lord's-daj
they always prayed standing, as is expressly affirmed both bj
Justin Martyr, and Tertullian ; the reason of which we find in the
authors of the Questions and Answers in Justin Martyr. " It is,*
says he, " that by this means we may be put in mind both of 01
fall by sin, and our resurrection or restitution by the grace of
Christ : that for six days we pray upon our knees, as in token of
our fall by sin : but that on the Lord's-day we do not bow the
knee, does symbolically represent our resurrection by which
through the grace of Christ we are delivered from our sins, and
the power of death." This, he there tells us, was a custom de-
rived from the very times of the apostles, for which he cites
Irenaeus in his book concerning Easter; and this custom was
maintained with so much vigour, that, when some began to
neglect it, the great council of Nice took notice of it, and
ordained that there should be a constant uniformity in this
case, and that on the Lbrd's-day (and at such times as were
usual) men should stand when they made their prayers to God.
So fit and reasonable did they think it to do all possible .honour to
that day on which Christ rose from the dead. Therefore, we may
observe, all along, in the sacred story, that after Christ's resurrec-
tion the apostles and primitive Christians did especially assemble
upon the first day of the week : and, whatever they might do at
other times, yet there are many passages that intimate that the
first day of the week was their most solemn time of meeting. On
this day it was that they were met together when our Saviour
first appeared to them, and so again the next week after : and on
this day they were assembled when the Holy Ghost so visibly

CAVE.] OF THE LORD'S-DA Y 433

came down upon them, when Peter preached that excellent ser-
mon, converted and baptized three thousand souls. Thus, when
St Paul was taking his leave at Troas, upon the first day of the
week, when the disciples came together to break bread, i.e., as
almost all agree, to celebrate the holy Sacrament, he preached to
them, sufficiently intimating that upon that day it was their usual
custom to meet in that manner, and elsewhere giving directions
to the church of Corinth (as he had done in the like to other
churches) concerning their contributions to the poor suffering
brethren, he bids them lay it aside upon the first day of the
week, which seems plainly to respect their religious assemblies
upon that day, for then it was that every one according to his
ability deposited something for the relief of the poor, and the
uses of the Church.

After the apostles the Christians constantly observed this
day, meeting together for prayer, expounding and hearing of the
Scriptures, celebration of the Sacraments, and other public duties
of religion. " Upon the day called Sunday," says Justin Martyr,
" all of us that live either in city or country meet together in one
place ; " and what they then did he there describes, of which after-
wards. This, doubtless, Pliny meant, when, giving Trajan an
account of the Christians, he tells him that they were wont to
meet together to worship Christ stato die, upon a set certain day ;
by which he can be reasonably understood to design no other but
the Lord's-day ; for, though they probably met at other times, yet
he takes notice of this only, either because the Christians whom
he had examined, had not told him of their meeting at other
times, or because this was their most public and solemn con-
vention, and which in a manner swallowed up the rest. By the
violent persecutions of those times the Christians were forced to
meet together before day. So Pliny in the same place tells the
emperor that they assembled before daylight to sing their morning
hymns to Christ, whence it is that Tertullian so often mentions
these nocturnal convocations. This gave occasion to their spite-
ful adversaries to calumniate and asperse them. The heathen in
Minucius charges them with their night congregations, upon

436 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

which account they are there scornfully called latebrosa et luci-
fugax natio, an " obscure and skulking generation ; " and the
very first thing that Celsus objects to is, that the Christians had
private and clancular [secret] assemblies, or combinations. To
which Origen answers, "that, if it were so, they might thank them
for it who would not suffer them to exercise it more openly \ that
the Christian doctrine was sufficiently evident and obvious, and
better known through the world than the opinions and sentiments
of their best philosophers ; and that, if there were some mysteries
in the Christian religion which were not communicated to every
one, it was no other thing than what was common in the several
sects of their own philosophy. But to return.

They looked upon the Lord's-day as a time to be celebrated
with great expressions of joy, as being the happy memory of
Christ's resurrection, and accordingly restrained whatever might
savour of sorrow and sadness. Fasting on that day they pro-
hibited with the greatest severity, accounting it utterly unlawful,
as Tertullian informs us. It was a very bitter censure that of
Ignatius, (or of whosoever that epistle was, for certainly it was
not his,) that whoever fasts on a Lord's-day is a murderer of
Christ. However, it is certain that they never fasted on those
days, no, not in the time of Lent itself; nay, the Montanists,
though otherwise great pretenders to fasting and mortification,
did yet abstain from it on the Lord's-day. And, as they ac-
counted it a joyful and good day, so they did whatever they
thought might contribute to the honour of it. No sooner was
Constantine come over to the Church, but his principal care was
about the Lord's-day. He commanded it to be solemnly ob-
served, and that by all persons whatsoever. He made it to all
a day of rest ; that men might have nothing to do but to worship
God, and be better instructed in the Christian faith, and spend
their whole time without anything to hinder them in prayer and
devotion, according to the custom and discipline of the Church.
And for those in his army, who yet remained in their paganism
and infidelity, he commanded them upon Lord's-days to go out
into the rields, and there pour out their souls in hearty prayers

CAVE.] OF THE LOR&S-DA Y. 437

to God ; and, that none might pretend their own inability to the
duty, he himself composed and gave them a short form of prayer,
which he enjoined them to make use of every Lord's-day: so
careful was he that this day should not be dishonoured or mis-
employed, even by those who were yet strangers and enemies to
Christianity. He moreover ordained that there should be no
courts of judicature open upon this day, no suits or trials at law;
but that for any works of mercy, such as emancipating and setting
free of slaves or servants, this might be done. That there should
be no suits nor demanding debts upon this day was confirmed by
several laws of succeeding emperors ; and that no arbitrators, who
had the umpirage of any business lying before them, should at
that time have power to determine to take up litigious causes,
penalties being entailed upon any that transgressed herein. Theo-
dosius the Great, anno 386, by a second law ratified one which
he had passed long before, wherein he expressly prohibited all
public shows upon the Lord's-day, that the worship of God might
not be confounded with those profane solemnities. This law the
younger Theodosius some years after confirmed and enlarged,
enacting, that on the Lord's-day (and some other festivals there
mentioned) not only Christians, but even Jews and heathens,
should be restrained from the pleasure of all sights and spectacles,
and the theatres be shut up in every place ; and whereas it might
so happen that the birthday or inauguration of the emperor might
fall upon that day, therefore to let the people know how infinitely
he preferred the honour of God, before the concerns of his own
majesty and greatness, he commanded that, if it should so happen,
that then the imperial solemnity should be put off, and deferred
till another day.

I shall take notice but of one instance more of their great ob-
servance of this day, and that was their constant attendance
upon the solemnities of public worship. They did not think
it enough to read and pray and praise God at home, but made
conscience of appearing in the public assemblies, from which
nothing but sickness and absolute necessity did detain them : and
if sick, or in prison, or under banishment, nothing troubled them

438 HALF HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MRS HUTCHINSON.

more than that they could not come to church, and join their
devotions to the common services. If persecution at any time
forced them to keep a little close, yet no sooner was there the
least mitigation, but they presently returned to their open duty,
and publicly met all together. No trivial pretences, no light
excuses, were then admitted for any one's absence from the con-
gregation, but, according to the merit of the cause, severe censures
were passed upon them. The synod at Illiberis provided that
if any man dwelling in a city (where usually churches were nearest
hand) should for three Lord's-days absent himself from the church,
he should for some time be suspended the communion, that he
might appear to be corrected for his fault.

SABBATH EVENING HYMN.

ANONYMOLS.

Ere yet the evening star, with silver ray,
Sheds its mild lustre on this Sacred Day,
Let us resume with thankful hearts again
The rites that Heaven and holiness ordain.

Still let those precious truths our thoughts engage,
Which shine revealed on inspiration's page j
Nor those blest hours in vanity be passed,
Which all who lavish will lament at last,

And as yon sun descending rolls away,
To rise in glory at returning day,
So may we set, our transient being o'er,
So rise in glory on the eternal shore.

254.— gamier 0f C0I0iT.el fhtMjms0tt;

MRS HUTCHINSON.

[THE "Life of Colonel Hutchinson," one of the Parliamentary leaders in
the time of Charles I., written by his widow Lucy, is one of the most delight-
ful of our English Memoirs. In those days of strife and domestic anxiety, it is
touching to know what solace there was for the good men of either party, in
the deep affection for their husbands of such wives as Mrs Hutchinson and
Lady Fanshawe. The following extract is an address entitled, "Mrs Hutchin-
son to her Children, concerning their Father."]

MRS HL-TCHINSON.] CHARACTER OF COLONEL HUTCHINSON. 439

To number his virtues is to give the epitome of his life, which
was nothing else but a progress from one degree of virtue to an-
other, till in a short time he arrived to that height which many
longer lives could never reach ; and, had 1 but the power of
rightly disposing and relating them, his single example would be
more instructive than all the rules of the best moralist, for his
practice was of a more divine extraction, drawn from the word of
God, and wrought up by the assistance of His Spirit ; therefore, in
the head of all his virtues, I shall set that which was the head and
spring of them all, his Christianity — for this alone is the true royal
blood that runs through the whole body of virtue, and every pre-
tender to that glorious family, who hath no tincture of it, is an
impostor and a spurious brat. This is that sacred fountain which
baptizeth all the gentle virtues that so immortalise the names of
Cicero, Plutarch, Seneca, and all the old philosophers: herein
they are regenerated, and take, a new name and nature ; digged
up in the wilderness of nature, and dipped in this living spring,
they are planted, and flourish, in the Paradise of God.

By Christianity I intend that universal habit of grace which is
wrought in a soul by the regenerating Spirit of God, whereby the
whole creature is resigned up into the divine will and love, and all
its actions designed to the obedience and glory of its Maker. As
soon as he had rmproved his natural understanding with the ac-
quisition of learning, the first studies he exercised himself in were
principles of religion, and the first knowledge he laboured for was
a knowledge of God, which, by a diligent examination of the
Scripture and the several doctrines of great men pretending that
ground, he at length obtained. Afterward, when he had laid a
sure and orthodox foundation in the doctrine ot the free grace of
God given us by Jesus Christ, he began to survey the super-
structures, and to discover much of the hay and stubble of man's
inventions in God's worship, which His Spirit burnt up. in the day
of their trial. His faith being established in the truth, he was full
of love to God and all His saints. He hated persecution for re-
ligion, and was always a champion for all religious people against
all their great oppressors. He detested all scoffs at any practice

44° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MRS HUTCHINSOM.

of worship, though such a one as he was not persuaded of.
Whatever he practised in religion was neither for faction nor ad-
vantage, but contrary to it, and purely for conscience' sake. As
he hated outsides in religion, so could he worse endure those
apostasies and those denials of the Ldrd and base compliances
with His adversaries, which timorous men practise under the name
of prudent and just condescensions to avoid persecution.

Christianity being in him as the fountain of all his virtues, and
diffusing itself into every stream, that of his prudence falls into
the next mention. He from a child was wise, and sought to by
many that might have been his fathers for counsel, which he could
excellently give to himself and others ; and whatever cross event
in any of his affairs may give occasion to fools to overlook the
wisdom of the design, yet he had as great a foresight, as strong a
judgment, as clear an apprehension of men and things as no man
more. He had rather a firm impression than a great memory,
yet he was forgetful of nothing but injuries. His own integrity
made him credulous of other men's, till reason and experience
convinced him, and as unapt to believe cautions which could
not be received without entertaining ill opinions of men, yet
he had wisdom enough never to commit himself to a traitor,
though he was once wickedly betrayed by friends whom ne-
cessity and not mistake forced him to trust. He was as ready to
hear as to give counsel, and never pertinacious in his will when
his reason was convinced. There was no opinion which he was
most settled in either concerning divine or human things but he
would patiently and impartially have it debated. In matters
of faith his reason always submitted to the word of God, and
what he could not comprehend he would believe because it was
written ; but in all other things, the greatest names in the world
could never lead him without reason : he would deliberate when
there was time, but never lost an opportunity of anything that was
to be done by tedious dispute. He would hear as well as speak,
and yet never spoke impertinently or unseasonably. He very
well understood himself his own advantages, natural parts, gifts
and acquirements, yet so as neither to glory of them to others,

MRS HUTCHINSON.] CHARACTER OF COLONEL HUTCHINSOtf. 441

nor overvalue himself for them, for he had an excellent virtuous
modesty, which shut out all vanity of mind, and yet admitted that
true understanding of himself which was requisite for the best im-
provement of all his talents ; he no less understood and was more
heedful to remark his defects, imperfections, and disadvantages,
but that too only to excite his circumspection concerning them,
not to damp his spirit in any noble enterprise. He had a noble
spirit of government, both in civil, military, and oecumenical ad-
ministrations, which forced even from unwilling subjects a love
and reverence of him, and endeared him to the souls of those re-
joiced to be governed by him. He had a native majesty that
struck an awe of him into the hearts of men, and a sweet great-
ness that commanded love. He had a clear discerning of men's
spirits, and knew how to give every one their just weight; he
contemned none that were not wicked, in whatever low degree of
nature or fortune they were otherwise : wherever he saw wisdom,
learning, or other virtues in men, he honoured them highly, and
admired them to their full rate; but never gave himself blindly up
to the conduct of the greatest master. Love itself, which was as
powerful in his as in any soul, rather quickened than blinded the
eyes of his judgment in discerning the imperfections of those that
were most dear to him. His soul ever reigned as king in the in-
ternal throne, and never was captive to his sense : religion and
reason, its two favoured councillors, took order that all the pas-
sions, kept within their own just bounds, there did him good ser-
vice, and furthered the public weal. He found such felicity in
that proportion of wisdom that he enjoyed, as he was a great lover
of that which advanced it, learning and the arts, which he not
only honoured in others, but had by his industry arrived to be a
far greater scholar than is absolutely requisite for a gentleman.
He had many excellent attainments, but he no less evidenced his
wisdom in knowing how to rank and use them, than in gaining
them. He had wit enough to have been both subtle and cunning,
but he so abhorred dissimulation that I cannot say he was either.
Greatness of courage would not suffer him to put on a vizard, to
secure him from any : to retire into the shadow of privacy and

442 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MRS HUTCHINSOK.

silence was all his prudence could effect in him. It will be as
hard to say which was the predominant virtue in him, as which is
so in its own nature. He was as excellent in justice as in wisdom
— the greatest advantage, nor the greatest danger, nor the dearest
interest or friend in the world could ribt prevail on him to prevent
justice even to an enemy. He never professed the thing he in-
tended not, nor promised what he believed out of his own power,
nor failed the performance of anything that was in his power to
fulfil. Never fearing anything he could suffer for the truth, he
never at any time would refrain a true or give a false witness ; he
loved truth so much that he hated even sportive lies and guileries.
He was so just to his own honour that he many times forbore
things lawful and delightful to him, rather than he would give any
one occasion of scandal. Of all lies he most hated hypocrisy in
religion, either to comply with changing governments or persons,
without a real persuasion of conscience, or to practise holy things
to get the applause of men or any advantage. As in religion, so
in friendship, he never professed love when he had it not, nor
disguised hate or aversion, which indeed he never had to any
party or person, but to their sins : and loved even his bitterest
enemies so well that I am witness how his soul mourned for them,
and how heartily he- desired their conversion. If he were defective
in any part of justice, it was when it was in his power to punish
those who had injured him, when I have so often known him to
recompense with favours instead of revenge, that his friends used
to tell him, if they had any occasion to make him favourably
partial to them, they would provoke him by an injury. He was
as faithful and constant to his friends as merciful to his enemies ;
nothing grieved him more than to be obliged when he could not
hope to return it. He that was a rock to all assaults of might
and violence, was the greatest easy soul to kindness, that the
least warm spark of that melted him into anything that was not
sinful.

Nor was his soul less shining in honour than in love. Piety
being still the bond of all his other virtues, there was nothing he

MRS HUTCHINSON.] CHARACTER OF COLONEL HUTCHINSON. 443

durst not do or suffer, but sin against God, and therefore, as he
never regarded his life in any noble or just enterprise, so he never
staked it in any rash or unwarrantable hazard. He was never sur-
prised, amazed, or confounded with great difficulties and dangers,
which rather served to animate than distract his spirits ; he had
made up his accounts with life and death, and fixed his purpose to
entertain both honourably, so that no accident ever dismayed him,
but he rather rejoiced in such troublesome conflicts as might sig-
nalise his generosity. A truer or more lively valour there never was
in any man, but, in all his actions, it ever marched in the same file
with wisdom. He understood well, and as well performed when
he undertook it, the military art in all parts of it : he naturally loved
the employment, as it suited with his active temper more than any,
conceiving a mutual delight in leading those men that loved his
conduct : and, when he commanded soldiers never was man more
loved and reverenced by all who were under him ; for he would
never condescend to them in anything they mutinously sought,
nor suffer them to seek what it was fit for him to provide, but
prevented them by his loving care ; and, while he exercised his
authority in no way but in keeping them to their just duty, they
joyed as much in his commands as he in their obedience : he was
very liberal to them, but ever chose just times and occasions to
exercise it. I cannot say whether he were more truly magnani-
mous or less proud ; he never disclaimed the meanest person nor
flattered the greatest : he had a loving and sweet courtesy to the
poorest, and would often employ many spare hours with the com-
monest soldiers and poorest labourers, but still so ordering his
familiarity as it never raised them to a contempt, but entertained
still at the same time a reverence with love oi him ; he ever pre-
served himself in his own rank, neither being proud of it so as to
despise any inferior, nor letting fall that just decorum which his
honour obliged him to keep up. He was as far from envy of
superiors as from contemning them that were under him : he was
above the ambition of vain titles, and so well contented with the
even ground of a gentleman, that no invitation could have pre-
vailed upon him to advance one step that way ; he loved sub-

444 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MRS HUTCHINSOX.

stantial not airy honour : as he was above seeking or delighting
in empty titles for himself, so he neither denied nor envied any
man's due precedency, but pitied those that took a glory in that
which had no foundation of virtue. As little did he seek after
popular applause or pride himself in it, if at any time it cried up
his just deserts ; he more delighted to do well than to be praised,
and never set vulgar commendations at such a rate as to act
contrary to his own conscience or reason for the obtaining them,
nor would forbear a good action which he was bound to, though
all the world disliked it, for he never looked on things as they
were in themselves, nor through the dim spectacles of vulgai
estimation. As he was far from a vain affectation of popularity,
so he never neglected that just care that an honest man ought to
have of his reputation, and was as careful to avoid the appearances
of evil as evil itself; but, if he were evil spoken of for truth or
righteousness' sake, he rejoiced in taking up the reproach ; which
all good men that dare bear their testimony against an evil gen-
eration must suffer. Though his zeal for truth and virtue caused
the wicked, with the sharp edges of their malicious tongues, to
attempt to shave off the glories from his head, yet his honour,
springing from the vast root of virtue, did but grow the thicker
and more beautiful for all their endeavours to cut it off. He was
as free from avarice as from ambition and pride. Never had any
man a more contented and thankful heart for the estate that God
had given, but it was a very narrow compass for the exercise of
his great heart. He loved hospitality as much as he hated riot :
he could contentedly be without things beyond his reach, though
he took very much pleasure in all those noble delights that ex-
ceeded not his faculties. In those things that were of mere
pleasure, he loved not to aim at that he could not attain; he
would rather wear clothes absolutely plain, than pretending to
gallantry, and would rather choose to have none than mean
jewels or pictures, and such other things as were not of absolute
necessity : he would rather give nothing than a base reward or
present; and, upon that score lived very much retired, though
his nature was very sociable, and delighted in going into and re

PLATO.] THE DEA TH OF SOCRA TES. 445

ceiving company, because his fortune would not allow him to do
it in such a noble manner as suited with his mind. He was so
truly magnanimous, that prosperity could never lift him up in the
least, nor give him any tincture of pride or vain glory, nor diminish
a general affability, courtesy, and civility, that he had always to
all persons. When he was most exalted, he was most merciful
and compassionate to those that were humbled. At the same
time that he vanquished any enemy, he cast away all his ill-will to
him, and entertained thoughts of love and kindness as soon as he
had ceased to be in a posture of opposition. He was as far from
meanness as from pride, as truly generous as humble, and showed
his noble spirit more in adversity than in his prosperous condi-
tion : he vanquished all the spite of his enemies by his manly
suffering, and all the contempts they could cast upon him were
their, not his, shame.

255.— f^ gMfr 0f

PLATO.
[FROM TAYLOR'S TRANSLATION OF THE "

[A CELEBRATED philosopher of Athens, son of Aristo and Parectonia. His
original name was Aristocles, and he received that of Plato from the largeness
of his shoulders. As one of the descendants of Codrus, and the offspring of a
noble, illustrious, and opulent family, Plato was educated with care, his body
formed and invigorated with gymnastic exercises, and his mind cultivated and
enlightened by the study of poetry and geometry, from which he derived that
warmth of imagination, and acuteness of judgment, which have stamped his
character as the most flowery and subtle writer of antiquity. It is from the
writings of Plato chiefly that we are to form a judgment of his merit as a philo-
sopher, and of the service which he rendered to science. No one can be con-
versant with these without perceiving that his diction always retained a strong
tincture of that poetical spirit which he discovered in his first productions.
This is the principal ground of those lofty encomiums, which both ancient and
modern critics have passed on his language, and particularly of the high estima-
tion in which it was held by Cicero, who, treating of the subject of language,
says, " that if Jupiter were to speak in the Greek tongue, he would use the
language of Plato." The accurate Stagyrite describes it as "a middle species
of diction, between verse and prose." Some of his Dialogues are elevated by

446

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

[PLATO.

such sublime and glowing conceptions, enriched with such copious dicti<
and flow in so harmonious a rhythm, that they may be truly called 1
poetical. Even in the discussion of abstract subjects, the language of
is often clear, simple, and full of harmony.]

When he had thus spoken, " Be it so, Socrates," said Critoi
" but what orders do you leave to those who are present, or
myself, either respecting your children, or anything else, in tl
execution of which we should most gratify you 1 " " What
always do say, Criton, (he replied,) nothing new: that if you
pay due attention to yourselves, do what you will, you will always
do what is acceptable to myself, to my family, and to your own
selves, though you should not now promise me anything. But if

you neglect yourselves, and are unwilling to live following the
track, as it were, of what I have said both now and heretofore,
you will do nothing the more, though you should now promise
many things, and that with earnestness." "We shall take care,
therefore," said Criton, "so to act. But how would you be
buried ?" "Just as you please, (said he,) if you can but catch
me, and I not elude your pursuit." And at the same time gently

PLATO.] THE DEA TH OF SOCRA TES. 447

laughing, and addressing himself to us, " I cannot persuade
Criton/' he said, " my friends, that I am that Socrates who now
disputes with you, and methodises every part of the discourse ;
but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead,
and asks how I ought to be buried. But all that long discourse
which some time since. I addressed to you, in which I asserted
that after I had drunk the poison I should no longer remain with
you, but should depart to certain felicities of the blessed, this I
seem to have declared to him in vain, though it was undertaken
to console both you and myself. Be surety, therefore, for me to
Criton, to the reverse of that, for which he became surety for me
to the judges ; for he was my bail that I should remain ; but be
you my bail that I shall not remain when I die, but shall depart
hence, that Criton may bear it the more easily, and may not be
affected when he sees my body burned or buried, as if I were
.suffering some dreadful misfortune ; and that he may not say at
my interment, that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is
buried. For be well assured of this, my friend Criton, that when
we speak amiss we are not only blamable as to our expressions,
but likewise do some evil to our souls. But it is fit to be of good
heart, and to say that my body will be buried, and to bury it in
such manner as may be most pleasing to yourself, and as you
may esteem it most agreeable to our laws."

When he had thus spoken, he arose, and went into another
room, that he might wash himself, and Criton followed him : but
he ordered us to wait for him. We waited therefore accordingly,
discoursing over, and reviewing among ourselves what had been
said ; and sometimes speaking about his death, how great a
calamity it would be to us ; and sincerely thinking that we, like
those who are deprived of their fathers, should pass the rest of
our life in the condition of orphans. But when he had washed
himself, his sons were brought to him, (for he had two little ones,
and one older,) and the women belonging to his family likewise
came in to him ; but when he had spoken to them before Criton,
and had left them such injunctions as he thought proper, he
ordered the boys and women to depart, and he himself returned

44-8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PLATO.

to us. And it was now near the setting of the sun ; for he had
been away in the inner room for a long time. But when he came
in from bathing he sat down and did not speak much afterwards :
for then the servant of the Eleven * came in, and, standing near
him, " I do not perceive that in you, Socrates," said he, "which
I have taken notice of in others ; I mean that they are angry with
me, and curse me, when, being compelled by the magistrates,
I announce to them that they must drink the poison. But, on
the contrary, I have found you to the present time to be the
most generous, mild, and best of all the men that ever came into
this place ; and therefore I am well convinced that you are not
angry with me, but with the authors of your present condition,
for you know who they are. Now, therefore, (for you know what
I came to tell you,) farewell ; and endeavour to bear this neces-
sity as easily as possible." And, at the same time, bursting into
tears, and turning himself away, he departed. But Socrates^
looking after him, said, " And thou, too, farewell ; and we shall
take care to act as you advise." And at the same time, turning
to us, "How courteous," he said, "is the behaviour of that man !
During the whole time of my abode here, he has visited me, and
often conversed with me, and proved himself to be the best of
men ; and now how generously he weeps on my account ! But
let us obey him, Criton, and let some one bring the poison, if it
is bruised ; and ifnot, let the man whose business it is bruise it."
" But, Socrates," said Criton, " I think that the sun still hangs
over the mountains, and is not set yet. And at the same time,
I have known others who have drunk the poison very late, after
it was announced to them ; who have supped and drunk abun-
dantly. Therefore, do not be in such haste, for there is yet time
enough." Socrates replied, " Such men, Criton, act fitly in the
manner in which you have described, for they think to derive
some advantage from so doing ; and I also with propriety shall
not act in this manner. For I do not think I shall gain anything
by drinking it later, except becoming ridiculous to myself through
desiring to live, and being sparing of life, when nothing of it any
* Athenian magistrates, who had the charge of executing criminals.

PLATO.] THE DEATH OF SOCRATES. 449

longer remains. Go, therefore," said he, "be persuaded, and
comply with my request."

Then Criton, hearing this, gave a sign to the boy that stood
near him ; and the boy departing, and having stayed for some
time, came back with a person that was to administer the poison,
who brought it pounded in a cup. And Socrates, looking at the
man, said, "Well, my friend, (for you are knowing in these matters,)
what is to be done 1 " " Nothing," he said, " but, after you have
drunk it, to walk about, until a heaviness takes place in your
legs, and then to lie down : this is the manner in which you
have to act." And at the same time he extended the cup to
Socrates. And Socrates taking it — and, indeed, Echecrates —
with great cheerfulness, neither trembling nor suffering any change
for the worse in his colour or countenance, but as he was used to
do, looking up sternly at the man, " What say you," he said, " as
to making a libation from this potion1? may I do it or not?"
"We can only bruise as much, Socrates," he said, "as we think
sufficient for the purpose." "I understand you," he said; "but
it is both lawful and proper to pray to the gods that my depar-
ture from hence thither may be prosperous : which I entreat them
to grant may be the case." And, so saying, he stopped, and
drank the poison very readily and pleasantly. And thus far indeed
the greater part of us were tolerably well able to refrain from
weeping : but when we saw him drinking, and that he had drunk
it, we could no longer restrain our tears. And from me, indeed,
in spite of my efforts, they flowed, and not drop by drop ; so that,
wrapping myself in my mantle, I bewailed myself, not indeed for
his misfortune, but for my own, considering what a companion I
should be deprived of. But Criton, who was not able to restrain
his tears, was compelled to rise before me. And Apollodorus,
who during the whole time prior to this had not ceased from weep-
ing, then wept aloud with great bitterness, so that he infected all
who were present except Socrates. But Socrates, upon seeing
this, exclaimed, " What are you doing, you strange men ! In
truth, I principally sent away the women lest they should produce
a disturbance of this kind ; for I have heard that it is proper to
VOL. in. 2 P

450 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

die among well-omened sounds. Be quiet, therefore, and maintain
your fortitude." And when we heard this we were ashamed, and
restrained our tears. But he, when he found during his walking
about that his legs became heavy, and had told us so, laid himself
down on his back. For the man had told him to do so. And at
the same time, he who gave him the poison, touching him at in-
tervals, examined his feet and legs. And then, pressing very hard
on his foot, he asked him if he felt it. But Socrates answered
that he did not. And after this he pressed his thighs, and thus,
going upwards, he showed us that he was cold and stiff. And
Socrates also touched himself, and said that when the poison
touched his heart he should then depart. But now the lower part
of his body was almost cold \ when, uncovering himself (for he
was covered) he said, (and these were his last words,) " Criton, we
owe a cock to ^Esculapius. Discharge this debt, therefore, for
me, and do not neglect it." " It shall be done," said Criton ;
"but consider whether you have any other commands." To this
inquiry of Criton he made no reply ; but shortly after he moved
himself, and the man uncovered him. And Socrates fixed his
eyes; which, when Criton perceived, he closed his mouth and
eyes. Thus, Echecrates, was the end of our companion ; a man,
as it appears to me, the best of those whom we were acquainted
with at that time, and, besides this, the most prudent and just.

256. — 10bht 0,oir»

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

[ALLAN CUNNINGHAM was born at Blackwood, near Dumfries, in 1784.
His parents were in humble circumstances, though not of humble descent. He
was apprenticed to a stone-mason at the early age of eleven, so that he was
essentially one of the self-taught. His decided vocation was to literature ; and
when he came to London in 1810 he supported himself by writing in the
Magazines and reporting for Newspapers. But his honest trade gave him
honourable employment, and enabled him to cultivate his more congenial
tastes. He was engaged in 1814 by Chantrey, the sculptor, in his workshop;
and gradually became the manager of his extensive business- -for so the manu-

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] ROBIN HOOD. 4^1

factory of a great sculptor must be called. In his leisure hours Cunningham
laboured assiduously as an author in the departments of romance, poetry,
biography, and criticism. But his fame will chiefly rest upon his songs ; some
of which have not been excelled by the most illustrious of the song-writers of
Scotland. These are collected into a small volume. The following account
of the "Robin-Hood Ballads" appeared in the " Penny Magazine." Allan
Cunningham died in 1842.]

The ballads devoted to the exploits of Robin Hood and his
whole company of outlaws are amongst the most popular of those
interesting remembrances of the past. They breathe of the in-
flexible heart and honest joyousness of old England : there is
more of the national character in them than in all the songs ot
classic bards or the theories of ingenious philosophers. They are
numerous, too, and fill two handsome volumes. Though Ritson,
an editor ridiculously minute and scrupulous, admitted but eight-
and-twenty into his edition, the number might be extended, for
the songs in honour of bold Robin were for centuries popular all
over the isle ; and were they now out of print might be restored,
and with additions, from the recitation of thousands, north as well
as south. Though modified in their language during their oral
transmission from the days of King John till the printing-press
took them up, they are in sense and substance undoubtedly
ancient. They are the work, too, of sundry hands : some have a
Scottish tone, others taste of the English border ; but the chief
and most valuable portion belongs to Nottinghamshire, Lan-
cashire, Derbyshire, and Yorkshire; and all — and this includes
those with a Scotch sound — are in a true and hearty English taste
and spirit.

A few of these ballads are probably the work of some joyous
yeoman, who loved to range the green woods and enjoy the
liberty and licence which they afforded ; but we are inclined to
regard them chiefly as the production of the rural ballad-maker, a
sort of inferior minstrel, who to the hinds and husbandmen was
both bard and historian, and cheered their firesides with rude
rhymes, and ruder legends, in which the district heroes and the
romantic stories of the peasantry were introduced with such

452 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

embellishments as the taste of the reciter considered acceptable.
These ballads, graphic as they are, will by some be pronounced
rude : we must admit too that they are often inharmonious and
deficient in that sequence of sound which critics in these our
latter days desire : but the eye, in the times when they were com-
posed, was not called, as now, to the judgment-seat ; and the ear
— for music accompanied without overpowering the words — was
satisfied with anything like similarity of sounds. The ballad-
maker therefore was little solicitous about the flow of his words,
the harmony of balanced quantities, or the clink of his rhymes.
His compositions, delighting as they did our ancestors, sound
rough and harsh in the educated ear of our own times, for our
taste is delicate in matters of smoothness and melody. They are,
however, full of incident and of human character ; they reflect
the manners and feelings of remote times ; they delineate much
that the painter has not touched and the historian forgotten;
they express, but without acrimony, a sense of public injury or of
private wrong ; nay, they sometimes venture into the regions of
fancy, and give pictures in the spirit of romance. A hearty relish
for fighting and fun ; a scorn of all that is skulking and cowardly;
a love of whatever is free and manly and warm-hearted ; a hatred
of all oppressors, clerical and lay; and a sympathy for those who
loved a merry joke, either practical or spoken, distinguish the
ballads of Robin Hood.

The personal character as well as history of the bold outlaw is
stamped on every verse. Against luxurious bishops and tyrannic
sheriffs his bow was ever bent and his arrow in the string ; he
attacked and robbed, and sometimes slew, the latter without
either compunction or remorse ; in his more humoursome moods
he contented himself with enticing them in the guise of a butcher
or a potter, with the hope of a good bargain, into the green wood,
where he first made merry and then fleeced them, making them
to dance to such music as his forest afforded, or join with Friar
Tuck in hypocritical thanksgiving for the justice and mercy they
had experienced. Robin's eyes brightened and his language
grew poetical when he was aware of the approach of some swollen

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] ROBIN HOOD. 453

pluralist — a Dean of Carlisle or an Abbot of St Mary's — with
sumpter-horses carrying tithes and dining-gear, and a slender
train of attendants. He would meet him with great meekness
and humility : thank our Lady for having sent a man at once
holy and rich into her servant's sylvan diocese ; inquire too about
the weight of his purse, as if desirous to augment it , but woe to
the victim who, with gold in his pocket, set up a plea of poverty.
" Kneel, holy man," Robin would then say, " kneel, and beg of
the saint who rules thy abbey-stead to send money for thy present
wants ;" and, as the request was urged by quarter-staff and sword,
the prayer was a rueful one, while the gold which a search in the
prelate's mails discovered was facetiously ascribed to the efficacy
ot his intercession with his patron saint, and gravely parted be-
tween the divine and the robber.

Robin Hood differed from all other patriots — for patriot he
was — of whom we read in tale or history. Wallace, to whom he
has been compared, was a high-souled man of a sterner stamp,
who loved better to see tyrants die than gain all the gold the
world had to give ; and Rob Roy, to whom the poet of Rydal
Mount has likened the outlaw of Sherwood, had little of the
merry humour and romantic courtesy of Bold Robin. This seems
to have arisen more from the nature than the birth of the man ;
he was no lover of blood, nay, he delighted in sparing those who
sought his life when they fell into his power ; and he was beyond
all examples, even of knighthood, tender and thoughtful about
women : even when he prayed, he preferred our Lady to all the
other saints in the calendar. Next to the ladies, he loved the
yeomanry of England ; he molested no hind at the plough, no
thresher in the barn, no shepherd with his flocks ; he was the
friend and protector of husbandman and hind, and woe to the
priest who fleeced, or the noble that oppressed them. The
widow too and the fatherless he looked upon as under his care,
and wheresoever he went some old woman was ready to do him
a kindness for a saved son or a rescued husband.

The personal strength of the outlaw was not equal to his
activity ; but his wit so far excelled his might that he never found

454 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

use for the strength which he had — so well did he form his plans
and work out all his stratagems. If his chief delight was to meet
with a fierce sheriff or a purse-proud priest, " all under the green-
wood-tree," his next was to encounter some burly groom who
refused to give place to the king of the forest, and was ready to
make good his right of way with cudgel or sword ; the tinker,
who, with his crab-tree staff, " made Robin's sword cry twang,"
was a fellow of their stamp. With such companions he recruited
his bands when death or desertion thinned them, and it seemed
that to be qualified for his service it was necessary to excel him
at the use of the sword or the quarter staff; his skill in the bow
was not so easily approached. He was a man too of winning
manners and captivating address, for his eloquence, united with
his woodland cheer, sometimes prevailed on the very men who
sought his life to assume his livery, and try the pleasures which
Barnesdale or Plompton afforded.

The high blood of Robin seems to have been doubted by Sir
Walter Scott, who, in the character of Locksley, makes the
traditionary Earl of Huntingdon but a better sort of rustic, with
manners rather of a franklin than a noble. Popular belief is,
however, too much even for the illustrious author of " Ivanhoe,"
and bold Robin will remain an earl while woods grow and waters
run. He was born, it is believed, in Nottinghamshire in the year
1 1 60, and during the reign of Henry II. In his youth he was
extravagant and wild, dissipated part of his patrimony, and was
juggled out of the remainder by the united powers of a sheriff and
an abbot. This made him desperate, drove him to the woods ;
and in the extensive forests which reached from Nottingham over
several counties he lived a free life with comrades whom his
knowledge of character collected, and who soon learned to value
a man who planned enterprises with judgment, and executed
them with intrepidity and success. He soon became famous
over the whole island, and with captains after his own heart, such
as Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, and Allan-a-Dale, he
ranged at will through the woodlands, the terror alike of the
wealthy and the tyrannic. Nay, tradition, as well as ballad,

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] ROBIN HOOD. 455

avers, that a young lady of beauty, if not of rank, loved his good
looks as well as his sylvan licence so much, that she accompanied
him in many of his expeditions.

" In these forests," says Ritson, " and with this company, he
for many years reigned like an independent sovereign ; at per-
petual war with the king of England and all his subjects, with the
exception, however, of the poor and the needy, or such as were
desolate and oppressed, or stood in need of his protection." This
wild life had for Robin charms of its own ; it suited the taste of a
high but irregular mind to brave all the constituted authorities in
the great litigated rights of free forestry ; the deer with which the
wood swarmed afforded food for all who had the art to bend a
bow ; and a ruined tower, a shepherd's hut, a cavern, or a thicket,

"When leaves were sharp and long,"

gave such a shelter as men who were not scrupulous about bed
or toilet desired ; while wealthy travellers or churchmen abound-
ing in tithes supplied them, though reluctantly, with Lincoln
green for doublets and wine for their festivals. Into Robin's
mode of life the poet Drayton, who might have been a striker
of deer in his day, has entered with equal knowledge and spirit :

"An hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood,
Still ready at his call, that bowmen were right good,
All clad in Lincoln green, with caps of red and blue,
His fellows' winded horn not one of them but knew,
When setting to their lips their little bugles shrill,
The warbling echoes waked from every dale and hill.
Their baldricks set with studs, athwart their slioulders cast,
To which below their arms their sheafs were buckled fast :
A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span,
Who struck below the knee, not counted was a man :
All made of Spanish yew, their bows were wondrous strong,
They not an arrow drew, but was a cloth yard long :
Of archery they had the very perfect craft,
With broad arrow, or butt, or prick, or roving shaft.
Their arrows finely paired for timber and for feather,
With birch and brazil pierced to fly in any weather ;
And shot they with the round, the square, or forked pile,
They loose gave such a twang as might be heard a mile."

456 H ALP-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Nor was the poet unaware of the way in which Robin main-
tained all this bravery : —

" From wealthy abbots' chests and churls' abundant store
What oftentimes he took he shared amongst the poor ;
No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way,
To him, before he went, but for his pass must pay."

In that wild way, and with no better means than his ready wit
and his matchless archery, Robin baffled two royal invasions of
Sherwood and Barnesdale, repelled with much effusion of blood
half a score of incursions made by errant knights and armed
sheriffs, and, unmoved by either the prayers or the thunders of
the Church, he reigned and ruled till age crept upon him, and
illness, arising from his exposure to summer's heat and winter's
cold, followed, and made him, for the first time, seek the aid
of a leech. This was a fatal step : the lancet of his cousin, the
Prioress of Kirklees Nunnery, in Yorkshire, to whom he had
recourse in his distress, freed both Church and State from further
alarm by treacherously bleeding him to death. " Such," exclaims
Ritson, more moved than common, "was the end of Robin
Hood ; a man who, in a barbarous age and under complicated
tyranny, displayed a spirit of freedom and independence which
has endeared him to the common people whose cause he main-
tained, and which, in spite of the malicious endeavours of pitiful
monks, by whom history was consecrated to the crimes and fol-
lies of titled ruffians and sainted idiots, to suppress all record of
his patriotic exertions and virtuous acts, will render his name
immortal."

The personal character of Robin Hood stands high in the
pages of both history and poetry. Fordun, a priest, extols his
piety ; Major pronounces him the most humane of robbers ; and
Camden, a more judicious authority, calls him the gentlest of
thieves, while in the pages of the early drama he is drawn at
heroic length, and with many of the best attributes of human
nature. His life and deeds have not only supplied materials for
the drama and the ballad, but proverbs have sprung from them ;
he stands the demigod of English archery; men used to swear

ANONYMOUS.] A LITTLE GESTE OF ROBIN HOOD. 457

both by his bow and his clemency : festivals were once annually
held, and games of a sylvan kind celebrated in his honour, in
Scotland as well as in England. The grave where he lies has still
its pilgrims ; the well out of which he drank still retains its name ;
and his bow and one of his broad arrows were within this century
to be seen in Fountains Abbey.

257.—$, f Me <&tste a! goMn ffojfo.

ANONYMOUS.

THE longest of all the ballads which bear the name of Robin
Hood was first printed at the Sun, in Fleet Street, by Wynken
de Worde. It is called "A Little Geste of Robin Hood;" but
so ill-informed was the printer in the outlaw's history, that he de-
scribes it as a story of King Edward, Robin Hood, and Little John.
It is perhaps one of the oldest of these compositions.

The ballad begins somewhat in the minstrel manner : —

Come lithe a listen, gentlemen, Robin he was a proud outlaw,
That be of free-born blood ; As ever walked on ground ;

I shall tell you of a good yeoman, So courteous an outlaw as he was
His name was Robin Hood. Has never yet been found.

It then proceeds to relate how Robin stood in Barnesdale Wood,
with all his companions beside him, and refused to go to dinner
till he should find some bold baron or unasked guest, either
clerical or lay, with wealth sufficient to furnish forth his table.
On this Little John, who seems always to have had a clear notion
of the work in hand, inquired anxiously, —

Where shall we take, where shall we There is no force, said bold Robin,

leave, Can well withstand us now ;

Where shall we abide behind, So look ye do no husbandman

Where shall we rob, where shall we harm,

reave, That tilleth with his plough.
WThere shall we beat and bind ?

He gives similar directions about tenderly treating honest yeo-

458 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

men, and even knights and squires disposed to be good fellows ;
" but beat," said he, " and bind bishops and archbishops ; and
be sure never to let the high sheriff of Nottingham out of you
mind." — " Your words shall be our law," said Little John ; " and
you will forgive me for wishing for a* wealthy customer soon — I
long for dinner. One, a knight with all the external marks of a
golden prize, was first observed by Little John, approaching on
horseback through one of the long green glades of Barnesd
Wood : the stranger is well drawn : —

All dreary then was his semblaunt, His hood hung over his two eyne ;

And little was his pride : He rode in simple array,

His one foot in the stirrup stood, A sorrier man than he was one

The other waved beside. Rode never in summer's day.

" I greet you well," said Little John, " and welcome you to t
greenwood ; my master has refused to touch his dinner th
three hours, expecting your arrival." " And who is your master,
inquired the stranger, " that shows me so much courtesy V " E'e
Robin Hood," said the other, meekly. " Ah, Robin Hood !" r
plied the stranger, " he is a good yeoman and true, and I accep
his invitation." Little John, who never doubted but that the
stranger was simulating sorrow and poverty, the better to hide his
wealth, conducted him at once to the trysting-tree, where Robi
received him with a kindly air and a cheerful countenance.

They washed together, and wiped Swans and pheasants they had full
both, good,

And set till their dinere And fowls of the rivere ;

Of bread and wine they had enough, There failed never so little a bird

And numbles of the deere. That ever was bred on brere.

" I thank thee for thy dinner, Robin," said the knight ; "and if
thou ever comest my way I shall repay it." " I make no such
exchanges, Sir Knight," said the outlaw, " nor do I ask any one for
dinner. I vow to God, as it is against good manners for a yeoman
to treat a knight, that you must pay for your entertainment." " I
have no more in my coffer," said the other composedly, " save ten
shillings," and he sighed as he said it. Robin signed to Little
John, and he dived into the stranger's luggage at once : he founc

;

ANONYMOUS.] A LITTLE GESTE OF ROBIN HOOD. 459

but ten shillings, and said, " The knight has spoken truly." " I
fear you have been a sorry steward of your inheritance, Sir
Knight," said the outlaw ; " ten shillings is but a poor sum to
travel with." "It was my misfortune, not my fault, Robin," said
the knight ; " my only son fell into a quarrel,

" And slew a knight of Lancashire, " My lands are sett to wad, Robin,

And a squire full bold, Until a certain day,

And all to save him in his right To a rich abbot here beside

My goods are sett and sold. Of St Mary's Abbeye.

" My lands," he continued, " are mortgaged for four hundred
pounds ; the abbot holds them : nor know I any friend who will
help me — not one." Little John wept ; Will Scarlett's eyes were
moist ; and Robin Hood, much affected, cried, " Fill us more
wine : this story makes me sad too." The wine was poured out
and drunk, and Robin continued, " Hast thou no friend, Sir
Knight, who would give security for the loan of four hundred
pounds ] " " None," sighed the other, " not one friend have I
save the saints." Robin shook his head. "The saints are but
middling securities in matters of money : you must find better
before I can help you."

I have none other, then, said the knight, Except that it be our dear Ladye,
The very sooth to say, Who never fail'd me a day.

Robin at length accepted the Virgin's security, and bade Little
John tell out four hundred pounds for the knight ; and, as he was
ill apparelled, he desired him to give him three yards, and no more,
of each colour of cloth for his use. John counted out the cash
with the accuracy of a miser ; but, as his heart was touched with
the knight's misfortunes, he measured out the cloth even more
than liberally he called for his bow and ell wand, and every
time he applied it, he skipped, as the ballad avers, " footes three."

Scathlock he stood still and laugh'd, Give him a gray steed too, Robin, he

And swore by Mary's might, said,

John may give him the better mea- Besides a saddle new,

sure. For he is our Ladye's messenger j

For by Peter it cost him light. God send that he prove true.

46o

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYJ

" Now," inquires the knight, " when shall my day of paym<
be 1" " If it so please you, sir," said Robin, " on this day .twelve
month, and the place shall be this good oak." "So be it/
answered the knight, and rode on his way.

The day of payment came, and Robin Hood and his chivah
sat below his trysting oak : their conversation turned on the absei
knight and on his spiritual security.

Go we to dinner, said Little John ;

Robin Hood, he said nay,
For I dread our Ladye be wroth with
me,

She hath sent me not my pay.

Have no doubt, master, quoth Lit
John,

Yet is not the sun at rest,
For I daresay and safely swear

The knight is true and trest.

The confidence of Little John was not misplaced ; for, whil
he took his bow and with Will Scarlett and Much the miller's sor
walked into the glades of Barnesdale Forest to await for the coi
ing of baron or bishop with gold in their purses, the knight was
on his way to the trysting- tree with the four hundred pounds ir
his pocket, and a noble present for the liberal outlaw : the pres
was in character : —

He purveyed him an hundred bows,
The strings they were well dight j

An hundred sheafs of arrows good,
The heads burnish'd full bright.

And every arrow was an ell long,
With peacock plume y-dight,

Y-nocked to all with white silver,
It was a seemly sight.

The knight was, however, detained on the way by a small task
mercy ; he came to a place where a horse, saddled, and bridl<
and a pipe of wine, were set up as the prizes at a public wrestling
match ; and as they were won by a strange yeoman, the losei
raised a tumult, and, but for the interference of the knight and th<
men who accompanied him, would have deprived the yeoman
his prizes and done him some personal harm. The Abbot, t<
of St Mary's had raised difficulties in the restoring of his lai
and the receipt of the redemption money ; and the sun was do}
and the hour of payment stipulated with Robin expired, when tl
good knight arrived at the trysting-tree. Events in the meanwhil
had happened which require notice.

As Little John with his two companions stood watch in tl

ANONYMOUS.] A LITTLE GESTE OF ROBIN HOOD. 461

wood of Barnesdale, the former, who loved his dinner almost as
well as he loved a fray, began not only to grow impatient, but to
entertain doubts about the hour of payment being kept. He was
now to be relieved from his anxiety : —

For as they look'd in Barnesdale wood, Then up bespake he, Little John,

And by the wide highway, To Much he thus 'gan say,

Then they were aware of two black By Mary, I '11 lay my life to wad,

monks, These monks have brought our pay.
Each on a good palfraye.

To stop and seize two strong monks with fifty armed men at their
; back seemed a daring task for three outlaws ; it was ventured on
! without hesitation : —

My brethern twain, said Little John, Now bend your bows, said Little John,

We are no more but three ; Make all yon press to stand ;

But an we bring them not to dinner, Theforemost monk, his life andhisdeath,

Full wroth will our master be. Is closed in my hand.

" Stand, churl monks," said the outlaws ; " how dared you be so
long in coming, when our master is not only angry but fasting 1 "
— "Who is your master?" inquired the astonished monks.
" Robin Hood," answered Little John. " I never heard good of
him," exclaimed the monk ; " he is a strong thief." He spoke his
mind in an ill time for himself; one called him a false monk;
another, it was Much, shot him dead with an arrow, and, slaying
or dispersing the whole armed retinue of the travellers, the three
outlaws seized the surviving monk and the sumpter-horses, and
took them all to their master below the trysting-tree. Robin wel-
comed his dismayed guest, caused him to wash, and sitting down
with him to dinner, and passing the wine, inquired who he was
and whence he came. " I am a monk, sir, as you see," was the
reply, " and the cellarer of St Mary's Abbey." Robin bethought
him on this of the knight and his security : —

I have great marvel, then Robin Have no doubt, master, said Little John,

Hood said, Ye have no need, I say,

And all this livelong day, This monk hath got it, I dare well

I dread our Ladye is wroth with me, swear,

She hath sent me not my pay. For he is of her abbaye.

462 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.

" That is well said, John," answered Robin Hood. " Monk, you
must know that our Lady stands security for four hundred pounds ;
the hour of payment is come ; hast thou the money 1 " The monk
swore roundly that he now heard of this for the first time, and
that he had only twenty marks about him for travelling expenses.
" We shall see that," said the outlaw : " I marvel that our Ladye
should send her messenger so ill provided : go thou, Little John,
and examine, and report truly " —

Little John spread his mantle down, I make mine avow to God, said

He had done the same before ; Robyne ;

And he told out of the good monk's Monk, what said I to thee ?

mails Our Ladye is the truthfullest dame

Eight hundred pounds and more. That ever yet found I me.

Little John let it lie full still, I vow by St Paule, said Robin Hood

And went to his master in haste ; then,

Sir, he said, the monk is true enough, I have sought all England thorowe,

Our Ladye hath doubled your Yet found I never for punctual pay

cost. Half so secure a borrowe.

Little John enjoyed this scene of profit and humour, and stood
ready to fill the monk's cup when Robin ordered wine. " Monk,
you are the best of monks," said the outlaw; "when you return to
your abbey, greet our Lady well, and say she shall ever find me a
friend ; and for thyself, hark, in thine ear : a piece of silver and a
dinner worthy of an abbot shall always be thine when you ride
this way." — " To invite a man to dinner that you may beat and
bind and rob him," replied the monk, " looks little like courtesy."
— " It is our usual way, monk," answered Robin, dryly ; " we
leave little behind."

As the monk departed, the knight made his appearance, but
Robin refused the four hundred pounds. " You were late in
coming," he said, " and our Lady, who was your security, sent
and paid it double." The knight looked strangely on the outlaw,
and answered, " Had I not stayed to help a poor yeoman, who
was suffering wrong, I had kept my time." — " For that good deed,
Sir Knight," said Robin Hood, " I hold you fully excused ; and
more, you will ever find me a friend " —

PAULDING.] THE QUARREL OF SQUIRE BULL AND HIS SON. 463

Come now forth, Little John, Have here four hundred pound,

And go to my treasury, Thou gentle knight and true,

And bring me there four hundred And buy horse and harness good,

pound, And gilt thy spurs all new :

The monk over told it me. And make thyself no more so bare,

And if thou fail any spending, By the counsel of me.

Come to Robin Hood,

And by my troth, thou shalt none fail Thus then holp him, good Robin,

The whiles I have any good. The knight all of his care.

God, that sitteth in heaven high,

&nd broke well thy four hundred pound Grant us well to fare.

Which I lent to thee,

258.— gCIf* djttaml 0f Squire gall mtr frb Smt,

PAULDING.

[JAMES KIRKE PAULDING, an American writer of celebrity, was born in
1779. In 1806 he joined with Washington Irving in the production of a
periodical work entitled "Salmagundi;" and he has written several novels.
"The History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan," from which the following
is an extract, was published in 1816. Mr Paulding was a member of the
Government of the United States during Van Buren's presidency.]

John Bull was a choleric old fellow, who held a good manor in
the middle of a great mill-pond, and which, by reason of its being
quite surrounded by water, was generally called Bullock Island.
Bull was an ingenious man, an exceedingly good' blacksmith, a
dexterous cutler, and a notable weaver and pot-baker besides.
He also brewed capital porter, ale, and small beer, and was in
fact a sort of Jack of all trades, and good at each. In addition
to these, he was a hearty fellow, and excellent bottle-companion,
and passably honest as times go.

But what tarnished all these qualities was a quarrelsome over-
bearing disposition, which was always getting him into some
scrape or other. The truth is, he never heard of a quarrel going
on among his neighbours, but his fingers itched to be in the
thickest of them ; so that he hardly ever was seen without a
broken head, a black eye, or a bloody nose. Such was Squire

464 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PAULDING.

Bull, as he was commonly called by the country people his neigh-
bours— one of these odd, testy, grumbling, boasting old codgers,
that never get credit for what they are, because they are always
pretending to be what they are not

The squire was as tight a hand to deal with in-doors as out ;
sometimes treating his family as if they were not the same flesh
and blood, when they happened to differ with him in certain
matters. One day he got into a dispute with his youngest son
Jonathan, who was familiarly called Brother Jonathan, about
whether churches ought to be called churches or meeting-houses ;
and whether steeples were not an abomination. The squire
either having the worst of the argument, or being naturally im-
patient of contradiction, (I can't tell which,) fell into a great
passion, and swore he would physic such notions out of the boy's
noddle. So he went to some of his doctors and got them to
draw up a prescription, made up of thirty-nine different articles,
many of them bitter enough to some palates. This he tried to
make Jonathan swallow; and finding he made villanous wry
faces, and would not do it, fell upon him and beat him like fury.
After this, he made the house so disagreeable to him, that
Jonathan, though as hard as a pine knot and as tough as leather,
could bear it no longer. Taking his gun and his axe, he put
himself in a boat and paddled over the mill-pond to some new
land to which the squire pretended some sort of claim, intending
to settle there, and build a meeting-house without a steeple as
soon as he grew rich enough.

When he got over, Jonathan found that the land was quite in a
state of nature, covered with wood, and inhabited by nobody but
wild beasts. But, being a lad of mettle, he took his axe on one
shoulder, and his gun on the other, marched into the thickest of
the wood, and, clearing a place, built a log hut. Pursuing his
labours, and handling his axe like a notable woodman, he in a
few years cleared the land, which he laid out into thirteen good
farms ; and building himself a fine farmhouse, about half finished,
began to be quite snug and comfortable.

But Squire Bull, who was getting old and stingy, and, besides,

PAULDING.] THE QUARREL OP SQUIRE BULL AND HIS SON, 465

was in great want of money on account of his having lately to
pay swinging damages for assaulting his neighbours and breaking
their heads — the squire, I say, finding Jonathan was getting well
to do in the world, began to be very much troubled about his
welfare ; so he demanded that Jonathan should pay him a good
rent for the land which he had cleared and made good for some-
thing. He trumped up I know not what claim against him, and
under different pretences managed to pocket all Jonathan's honest
gains. In fact, the poor lad had not a shilling left for holiday
occasions ; and, had it not been for the filial respect he felt for
the old man, he would certainly have refused to submit to such
impositions.

But for all this, in a little time Jonathan grew up to be very
large of his age, and became a tall, stout, double-jointed, broad-
footed cub of a fellow, awkward in his gait and simple in his ap-
pearance ; but showing a lively, shrewd look, and having the
promise of great strength when he should get his full growth.
He was rather an odd-looking chap, in truth, and had many
queer ways ; but everybody that had seen John Bull saw a great
likeness between them, and swore he was John's own boy, and a
true chip of the old block. Like the old squire, he was apt to
be blustering and saucy, but in the main was a peaceable sort of
careless fellow, that would quarrel with nobody if you would only
let him alone. He used to dress in homespun trowsers with a
huge bagging seat which seemed to have nothing in it. This
made people say he had no bottom j but whoever said so lied,
as they found to their cost whenever they put Jonathan in a
passion. He always wore a linsey-wolsey coat that did not above
half cover his breech, and the sleeves of which were so short that
his hand and wrist came out beyond them, looking like a shoulder
of mutton, all which was in consequence of his growing so fast
that he outgrew his clothes.

While Jonathan was outgrowing his strength in this way, Bull
kept on picking his pockets of every penny he could scrape to-
gether ; till at last one day when the squire was even more than
usually pressing in his demands, which he accompanied with

VOL. III. 2 G

406 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [T. WARTON.

threats, Jonathan started up in a furious passion, and threw the
tea-kettle at the old man's head. The .choleric Bull was here-
upon exceedingly enraged, and, after calling the poor lad an un-
dutiful, ungrateful, rebellious rascal, seized him by the collar, and
forthwith a furious scuffle ensued. This lasted a long time ; for
the. squire, though in years, was a capital boxer, and of most
excellent bottom. At last, however, Jonathan got him under,
and before he would let him up made him sign a paper giving up
all claim to the farms, and acknowledging the fee-simple to be in
Jonathan for ever.

5N.

259. —

T. WART OH.
[WRITTEN AT OXFORD IN 1746.]

WHEN, now mature in classic knowledge,

The joyful youth is sent to college,

His father comes, a vicar plain,

At Oxford bred — in Anna 's reign,

And thus, in form of humble suitor,

Bowing accosts a reverend tutor :

" Sir, I 'm a Glo'stershire divine,

And this my eldest son of nine ;

My wife's ambition and my own

Was that this child should wear a gown ;

I '11 warrant that his good behaviour

Will justify your future favour ;

And for his parts, to tell the truth,

My son 's a very forward youth ;

Has Horace all by heart — you 'd wonder —

And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.

If you'd examine — and admit him,

A scholarship would nicely fit him :

That he succeeds 'tis ten to one ;

Your vote and interest, sir ! " — 'Tis done.

Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated
Are with a scholarship completed ;
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college rules are heavy chains :

T. WARTON..! THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 467

In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns ;
And now intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship — and fines.

When nine full tedious winters pass'd,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last :
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot ;
"These fellowships are pretty things,
We live indeed like petty kings ;
But who can bear to waste his whole age
Amid the dulness of a college,
Debarr'd the common joys of life,
And that prime bliss — a loving wife 1
Oh! what's a table richly spread
Without a woman at its head ?
Would some snug benefice but fall,
Ye feasts, ye dinners ! farewell all !
To offices I 'd bid adieu,
Of Dean, Vice-Pres. — of Bursar too ;
Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Come tithes, and house, and fruitful fields I "

Too fond of freedom and of ease,
A patron's vanity to please,
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail incumbent's doubtful health j
At length — and in his fortieth year,
A living drops— two hundred clear :
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat —
What a convenient house ! how neat 1
For fuel here 's sufficient wood : »

Pray God the cellars may be good !
The garden — that must be new plann'd—
Shall these old-fashioned yew-trees stand?
O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
The flowery shrub of thousand dyes : —
Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,
Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay :
While thick beneath its aspect warm
O'er well-ranged hives the bees shall swarm,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam,

465 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [T. WARTON.

Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream.
Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
An avenue so cool and dim,
Shall to an arbour, at the end,
In spite of gout, entice a friend.
My predecessor loved devotion—
But of a garden had no notion.

Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds — a cousin of the 'squire ;
Not over weighty in the purse,
But many doctors have done worse :
And though she boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve and make birch wine.

Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel ;
Finds his churchwardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning.
With tithes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees j
Studies to find out latent dues, .
And regulates the state of pews ;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing ;
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And — but on Sunday — hears no bells ;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot ;
Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year ;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
v Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkeys >

Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.

But ah ! too soon his thoughtless breast
By cares domestic is opprest ;
And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin :
For children fresh expenses yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.
<* Why did I sell my college life
(He cries) for benefice and wife ?

BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] RESOLUTIONS. 469

Return, ye days ! when endless pleasure

I found in reading, or in leisure ;

When calm around the common room

I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume !

Rode for a stomach, and inspected

At annual bottlings, corks selected ;

And dined untax'd, untroubled, under

The portrait of our pious founder !

When impositions were supplied

To light my pipe — or soothe my pride.

No cares were then for forward peas

A yearly-longing wife to please ;

My thoughts no christening-dinners cross'd

No children cried for butter'd toast,

And every night I went to bed

Without a modus in my head ! "

Oh ! trifling head and fickle heart,
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art,
A dupe to follies yet untried,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd !
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases.
And in pursuit alone it pleases.

260.—

BISHOP BEVERIDGE.
CONCERNING MY TALENTS.

HAVING so solemnly devoted myself to God, according to the
covenant He hath made with me, and the duty I owe to Him ; not
only what I am, and what I do, but likewise what I have, is still
to be improved for Him. And this I am bound to, not only
upon a federal, but even a natural account; for whatsoever I
have, I received from Him, and therefore all the reason in the
world whatsoever I have should be improved for Him. For I
look upon myself as having no other property in what I enjoy
than a servant hath in what he is intrusted with to improve for
his master's use : thus, though I should have ten thousand pounds
a year, I should have no more of my own than if I had but two-

470 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGU.

pence in all the world. For it is only committed to my care for
a season, to be employed and improved to the best advantage,
and will be called for again at the grand audit, when I must
answer for the use or abuse of it ; so that, whatsoever in a civil
sense I may call my own, that, in a spiritual sense, I must esteem
as God's. And, therefore, it nearly concerns me to manage all
the talents I am intrusted with as things I must give a strict ac-
count of at the day of judgment. As God bestows His mercies
upon me, through the greatness of His love and affection ; so am
I to restore His mercies back again to Him by the holiness of my
life and conversation. In a word, whatever I receive from His
bounty, I must, some way or other, lay out for His glory, account-
ing nothing my own, any further than as I improve it for God's
sake and the spiritual comfort of my own soul.

In order to this, I shall make it my endeavour, by the blessing
of God, to put in practice the following resolutions : —

RESOLUTION I.

Time, health, and parts, are three precious talents, generally
bestowed upon men, but seldom improved for God. To go no
further than myself, how much time and health have I enjoyed
by God's grace : and how little of it have I laid out for His honour!
On the contrary, how oft have I offended, affronted, and provoked
Him even when He has been courting me with His favours, and
daily pouring forth His benefits upon me ! This, alas ! is a sad
truth, which, whensoever I seriously reflect upon, I cannot but
acknowledge the continuance of my life as the greatest instance
of God's mercy and goodness, as well as the greatest motive to
my gratitude and obedience. In a due sense, therefore, of the
vanities and follies of my younger years, I desire to take shame
to myself for what is past, and do this morning humbly prostrate
myself before the throne of grace, to implore God's pardon, and
to make solemn promises and resolutions for the future, to " cast
off the works of darkness, and to put on the armour of light ; "
and not only so, but to redeem the precious minutes I have
squandered away, by husbanding those that remain to the best

BISHOP ESVERIDGE.] RESOLUTIONS. 471

advantage. I will not trifle and sin away my time in the pleasures
of sense, or the impertinences of business, but shall always em-
ploy it in things that are necessary, useful, and proportion it to
the weight and importance of the work or business I engage my-
self in ; allotting such a part of it for this business, and such a
part for that, so as to leave no interval for unlawful or unneces-
sary actions, to thrust themselves in, and pollute my life and con-
versation.

For, since it has pleased God to favour me with the blessings
of health, and I am not certain how soon I maybe deprived of it,
and thrown upon a bed of sickness, which may deprive me of the
use of my reason, or make me incapable of anything else, but
grappling with my distemper ; it highly concerns me to make a
due use of this blessing while I have it : to improve these parts
and gifts that God has endowed me with, to the manifestation of
His glory, the salvation of my soul, and the public good of the
community whereof I am a member.

To these ends, it will be requisite for me frequently to consider
with myself which way my weak parts may be the most usefully
employed, and to bend them to those studies and actions which
they are naturally the most inclined to and delighted in, with the
utmost vigour and application; more particularly in spiritual
matters, to make use of all opportunities for the convincing others
of God's love to them, and their sins against God ; of their misery
by nature, and happiness by Christ ; and when the truth of God
happens to be in any way traduced or opposed, to be as valiant in
defence of it as its enemies are violent in their assaults against it.
And as I thus resolve to employ my inward gifts and faculties for
the glory and service of God j so,

RESOLUTION II.

This, without doubt, is a necessary resolution, but it is likewise
very difficult to put in practice, without a careful observance of
the following rules :

First, never to lavish out my substance, like the prodigal, in the
revels of sin and vanity, but after a due provision for the neces-

472 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGH.

sities and conveniences of life to lay up the overplus for acts ot
love and charity towards my indigent brethren. I must consider
the uses and ends for which God has intrusted me with such and
such possessions ; that they were not given me for the pampering
my body, the feeding my lusts, or puffhig me up with pride and
ambition ; but for advancing His glory and my own and the public
good. But why do I say given ? when, as I before observed, I
have no property in the riches I possess ; they are only lent me
for a few years to be dispensed and distributed as my great Lord
and Master sees fit to appoint, viz., for the benefit of the poor
and necessitous, which He has made His deputies to call for and
receive His money at my hands. And this, indeed, is the best use
I can put it to, for my own advantage as well as theirs ; for the
money I bestow upon the poor, I give to God to lay up for me,
and I have His infallible word and promise for it, that it shall be
paid me again with unlimited interest out of His heavenly treasury,
which is infinite, eternal, and inexhaustible. Hence it is that
whensoever I see any fit object of charity, methinks I hear the
Most High say unto me, " Give this poor brother so much of my
store, which thou hast in thy hand, and I will place it to thy ac-
count, as given to myself;" and "look what thou layest out, it shall
be paid thee again."

The second rule is, never to spend a penny where it can be
better spared ; nor to spare it where it can be better spent. And
this will oblige me, whensoever any occasion offers of laying out
money, considerately to weigh the circumstances of it, and, ac-
cording as the matter, upon mature deliberation, requires, I must
not grudge to spend it ; or, if at any time I find more reason to
spare, I must not dare to spend it ; still remembering, that as I
am strictly to account for the money God has given me, so I
ought neither to be covetous in saving, or hoarding it up, nor pro-
fuse in throwing it away, without a just occasion. The main thing
to be regarded is the end I propose to myself in my expenses,
whether it be really the glory of God, or my own carnal humour
and appetite.

For instance, if I lay out my money in clothing my body, the

BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] RESOLUTIONS. 473

question must be, whether I do this only for warmth and decency,
or to gratify my pride and vanity. If the former, my money is
better spent; if the latter, it is better spared than spent. Again,
do I lay it out in eating and drinking, if this be only to satisfy
the necessities of nature, and make my life more easy and com-
fortable, it is without doubt very well spent j but if it be to feed
my luxury and intemperance, it is much better spared ; better for
my soul, in keeping it from sin, and better for my body in pre-
serving it from sickness : and this rule is the more strictly to be
observed, because it is as great a fault in a servant not to lay
out his master's money when he should, as to lay it out when he
should not.

In order, therefore, to avoid both these extremes, there is a
third rule to be observed under this resolution ; and that is to
keep a particular account of all my receipts and disbursements,
to set down in a book every penny I receive at the hands of the
Almighty, and every penny I lay out for His honour and service.
By this means I shall be, in a manner, both forced to get my
money lawfully, and to lay it out carefully : but how can I put
that amongst the money I have received from God, which I have
got by unlawful means ? certainly, such money I may rather ac-
count as received from the devil for his use, than from God for
His. And so must I either lay every penny out for God, or other-
wise I shall not know where to set it down, for I must set down
nothing but what I lay out for His use ; and if it be not His use,
with what face can I say it was1? And by this means also, when God
shall be pleased to call me to an account for what I received from
Him I may with comfort appear beforeHim ; and having improved
the talents He had committed to my charge, I may be received
into His heavenly kingdom with a " well done, good and faithful
servant, enter thou into thy Master's joy."

RESOLUTION III.

That all power and authority hath its original from God, and
that one creature is not over another, but by the providence and
will of Him who is over all ; and so, by consequence, that all the

;

474 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGB.

authority we have over men is to be improved for God, is clear,
not only from that question, "Who made thee to differ from
another ; and what hast thou that thou didst not receive 1 " but
likewise, and that more clearly, from that positive assertion, " the
powers that be are ordained of God." That, therefore, I may
follow my commission, I must stick close to my present resolution,
even in all the power God gives me to behave myself as one in-
vested with that power from above, to restrain vice and encourage
virtue, as oft as I have an opportunity so to do, always looking
upon myself as one commissioned by Him, and acting under Him.
For this reason, I must still endeavour to exercise my authority
as if the most high God was in my place in person as well as
power. I must not follow the dictates of my own carnal reason,
much less the humours of my own biassed passion, but still keep
to the acts which God himself hath made, either in the general
statute-book for all the world, the Holy Scriptures, or in the par-
ticular laws and statutes of the nation wherein I live.

And questionless, if I discharge this duty as I ought, whatever
sphere of authority I move in, I am capable of doing a great deal
of good, not only by my power but by my influence and example.
For common experience teaches us, that even the inclinations and
desires of those that are eminent for their quality or station, are
more powerful than the very commands of God himself; especially
among persons of an inferior rank, and more servile disposition,
who are apt to be more wrought upon by the fear of present pun-
ishment, or the loss of some temporal advantage, than anything
that is future or spiritual. Hence it is, that all those whom God
intrusteth with this precious talent have a great advantage and
opportunity in their hand for the suppressing sin and the exalt-
ing holiness in the world : a word from their mouths against
whoredom, drunkenness, and the profanation of the Sabbath, or
the like ; yea, their very example and silent gestures being able to
do more than the threatenings of Almighty God, either pro-
nounced by Himself in His word, or by His ministers in His
holy ordinances.

This, therefore, is my resolution, that whatsoever authority the

BISHOP BEVERIDGH.] RESOLUTIONS. 473

most high God shall be pleased to put upon me, I will look upon
it as my duty, and always make it my endeavour, to demolish the
kingdom of sin and Satan, and establish that of Christ and holiness
in the hearts of all those to whom my commission extends ; look-
ing more at the duty God expects from me, than at the dignity
He confers upon me. In a word, I will so exercise the power and
authority God puts into my hands here, that when the particular
circuit of my life is ended, and I shall be brought to the general
assize to give an account of this among my other talents, I may
give it up with joy ; and so exchange my temporal authority upon
earth for an eternal crown of glory in heaven.

RESOLUTION IV.

If the authority I have over others, then questionless the affec-
tion others have to me is to be improved for God : and that be-
cause the affection they bear to me in a natural sense hath a
kind of authority in me over them in a spiritual one. And this I
gather from my own experience ; for I find none to have a
greater command over me, than they that manifest the greatest
affections for me. Indeed it is a truth generally agreed on, that
a real and sincere esteem for any person is always attended with
a fear of displeasing that person : and where there is fear in the
subject, there will, doubtless, be authority in the object ; because
fear is the ground of authority, as love is, or ought to be, the
ground of that fear. The greatest potentate, if not feared, will
not be obeyed ; if his subjects stand in no awe of him, he can
never strike any awe upon them. Nor will that awe have its proper
effects in curbing and restraining them from sin and disobedience,
unless it proceeds from, and is joined with, love.

I know the Scripture tells me, " There is no fear in love, but
that perfect love casteth out fear." But that is to be understood
of our love to God, not to men, and that a perfect love, too, such
as can only be exercised in heaven. There I know our love will
be consummate, without mixture, as well as without defect ; there
will be a perfect expression of love on both sides, and so no fear
of displeasure on either. But this is a happiness which is not

476 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGR.

to be expected here on earth ; so long as we are clothed with
flesh and blood, we shall, in one degree or other, be still under the
influence of our passions and affections. And, therefore, as there
is no person we can love upon earth, but who may sometimes see
occasion to be displeased with us : «o he will always, upon that
account, be feared by us. This I look upon as the chief occasion
of one man's having so much power and influence over another.

But how comes this under the notion of a talent received from
God, and so to be improved for Him? Why, because it is He, and
He alone, that kindles and blows up the sparks of pure love and
affection in us, and that by the breathings of His own Spirit. It
was the Lord that gave Joseph favour in the sight of the " keeper
of the prison," and who brought Daniel into favour and tender
love with the " prince of the eunuchs." And so of all others in
the world : for we are told elsewhere, that as " God fashioneth the
hearts of men, so he turneth them which way soever he will."
Insomuch that I can never see any express their love to me, but
I must express my thankfulness to God for it : nor can I feel in
myself any warmth of affection towards others, without consider-
ing it as a talent hid in my breast, which I am obliged in duty to
improve for Him, by stirring up their affections unto Him whose
affections Himself hath stirred up towards me. And this will be
the more easy to effect, if I take care, in the first place, to express
the tzeal and sincerity of my own love to God, by making Him
the chief object of my esteem and adoration ; and manifest my
aversion to the sins they are guilty of, by representing them as
most loathsome and abominable, as well as most dangerous and
damnable. For, wherever there is a true and cordial affection to
any person, it is apt to bias those that are under the influence of
it, to choose the same objects for their love or aversion, that such
a person does, that is, to love what he loves, and to hate what he
hates. This, therefore, is the first thing to be done, to stir up the
affections of others to love and serve God.

Another way of my improving the affections of others to this end,
is by setting them a good example : for commonly what a friend
doth, be it good or bad, is pleasing to us, because we look not at

BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] RESOLUTIONS. 477

the goodness of the thing that is done, but at the loveliness of the
person that doth it. And if the vices of a friend seem amiable,
how much more will his virtues shine ! For this reason, therefore,
whensoever I perceive any person to show a respect for, or affec-
tion to me, I shall always look upon it as an opportunity put into
my hands to serve and glorify my great Creator, and shall look
upon it as a call from heaven, as much as if I heard the Almighty
say to me, I desire to have this person love me, and therefore
have I made him to love thee : do thou but set before him an
example of goodness and virtue, and his love to thy person shall
induce and engage him to direct his actions according to it. This,
therefore, is the rule that I fully resolve to guide myself by, with
relation to those who are pleased to allow me a share in their
esteem and affection, which I hope to improve to their advantage
in the end ; that as they love me, and I love them now, so we
may all love God, and God love us to all eternity.

RESOLUTION V.

Whatsoever comes from God being a talent to be improved to
Him, I cannot but think good thoughts to be as precious talents
as it is possible a creature can be blessed with. But let me
esteem them as I will, I am sure my Master will reckon them
amongst the talents He intrusts me with, and for which He will
call me to an account; and therefore I ought not to neglect
them. The Scripture tells me, " I am not sufficient of myself to
think anything as of myself, but that my sufficiency is of God."
And if I be not sufficient to think anything, much less am I able
of myself to think of that which is good ; forasmuch as to good
thoughts there must always be supposed a special concurrence of
God's Spirit ; whereas to other thoughts there is only the general
concurrence of His presence. Seeing, therefore, they come from
God, how must I lay them out for Him ? Why, by sublimating
good thoughts unto good affections. Does God vouchsafe to
send down into my heart a thought of Himself? I am to send
up this thought to Him again,.in the fiery chariot of love, desire,
and joy. Doth He dart into my soul a thought of holiness and

478 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERII

purity ] I am to dwell and meditate upon it till it break out into
a flame of love and affection for Him. Doth He raise up in my
spirit a thought of sin, and show me the ugliness and deformity of
it 1 I must let it work its desired effect, by making it as loath-
some and detestable as that thought represents it to be.

But good thoughts must not only be improved to produce good
affections in my heart, but likewise good actions in my life. So
that the thoughts of God should not only make me more taken
with His beauty, but more active for His glory ; and the thoughts
of sin should not only damp my affection for it, but likewise deter
and restrain me from the commission of it.

And thus every good thought that God puts into my heart,
instead of slipping out, as it does with some others without regard,
will be cherished and improved to the producing of good actions;
these actions will entitle me to the blessing of God, and that to
the kingdom of glory.

RESOLUTION VI.

Everything that flows from God to His servants, coming under
the notion of talents to be improved for Himself, I am sure afflic-
tions, as well as other mercies, must needs be reckoned among
those talents God is pleased to vouchsafe. Indeed it is a talent
without which I should be apt to forget the improvement of all
the rest ; and which, if well improved, itself will " work out for
me a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." It is the
non-improvement of an affliction that makes it a curse ; whereas,
if improved, it is as great a blessing as any God is pleased to
scatter amongst the children of men. And therefore it is, that
God most frequently intrusteth this precious talent with His
own peculiar people : " You only have I known of all the families
of the earth \ therefore will I punish you for your iniquities."
Those that God knows the best, with them will He injrust the
most, if not of other talents yet be sure of this, which is so useful
and necessary to bring us to the knowledge of ourselves and our
Creator, that without it we should be apt to forget both.

It is this that shows us the folly and pride of presumption, as

BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] 'RESOLUTIONS. 479

well as the vanity and emptiness of all worldly enjoyments ; and
deters us from incensing and provoking Him from whom all our
happiness as well as our afflictions flow. Let, therefore, what
crosses or calamities soever befall me, I am still resolved to bear
them all, not only with a patient resignation to the Divine will, but
even to comfort and rejoice myself in them as the greatest bless-
ings. For instance, am I seized with pain and sickness 1 I shall
look upon it as a message from God, sent on purpose to put me

' in mind of death, and to convince me of the necessity of being
always prepared for it by a good life, which a state of uninter-
rupted health is apt to make us unmindful of. Do I sustain any
losses or crosses 1 The true use of this is, to make me sensible
of the fickleness and inconstancy of this world's blessings, which
we can no sooner cast our eyes upon, but they immediately "take
to themselves wings and fly away from us." And so all other
afflictions God sees fit to lay upon me may, in like manner, be
some way or other improved for my happiness.

But besides the particular improvements of particular chastise-
ments, the general improvement of all is the increasing of my love
and affection for that God who brings these afflictions upon me.

i For how runs the mittimus whereby He is pleased to send me to
the dungeon of afflictions 1 " Deliver such a one to Satan to be
buffeted" in the flesh : "that the spirit may be saved in the day
of the Lord Jesus." By this it appears that the furnace of afflic-

I tions, which God is pleased at any time to throw me into, is not
heated at the fire of His wrath, but at the flames of His affection
to me. The consideration whereof, as it should more inflame my
love to Him, so shall it likewise engage me to express a greater
degree of gratitude towards Him, when He singles me out, not only
to suffer from Him, but for Him too. For this is an honour indeed
peculiar to the saints of God, which if He should ever be pleased
to prefer me to, I shall look upon it as upon other afflictions, to

• be improved for His glory, the good of others, and the everlasting
comfort of my own soul,

Thus have I reckoned up the talents God hath or may put into

; my hands to be improved to His glory. May the same Divine

480 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILTON.

Being that intrusteth me with them, and inspired me with these
good resolutions concerning them, enable me, by His grace, to
make a due use of them, and carefully to put in practice what I
have thus religiously resolved upon.

MILTON.

[!N Milton's prose writings, controversial as most of them are, we find the
most interesting morsels of autobiography. The following is from "The
Reason of Church Government."]

Concerning this wayward subject against prelacy, the touching
whereof is so distasteful and disquietous to a number of men ; as,
by what hath been said, I may deserve of charitable readers to be
credited, that neither envy nor gall hath entered me on this con-
troversy ; but the enforcement of conscience only, and a preven-
tive fear, lest the omitting of this duty should be against me, when
I would store up to myself the good provision of peaceful hours.
So, lest it should be still imputed to me, as I have found it hath
been, that some self-pleasing humour of vain-glory hath incited
me to contest with men of high estimation, now, while green years
are upon my head, from this needless surmisal I shall hope to
dissuade the intelligent and equal auditor, if I can but say success-
fully that which in this exigent behoves me ; although I would be
heard only, if it might be, by the elegant and learned reader, to
whom principally for a while I shall beg leave I may address
myself. To him it will be no new thing, though I tell him that,
if I hunted after praise, by the ostentation of wit and learning, I
should not write thus out of mine own season, when I have neither
yet completed to my mind the full circle of my private studies ;
although I complain not of any insufficiency to the matter in
hand : or were I ready to my wishes, it were a folly to commit
anything elaborately composed to the careless and interrupted
listening of these tumultuous times. Next, if I were wise only to

MILTON.] OF HIS OWN STUDIES, 481 '

my own ends, I would certainly take such a subject as of itself
might catch applause ; whereas this hath all the disadvantages on
the contrary, and such a subject as the publishing whereof might
be delayed at pleasure, and time enough to pencil it over with all
the curious touches of art, even to the perfection of a faultless
picture ; whenas in this argument, the not deferring is of great
moment to the good speeding, that if solidity have leisure to do
her office, art cannot have much. Lastly, I should not choose
this manner of writing, wherein knowing myself inferior to myself,
led by the genial power of nature to another task, I have the use,
as I may account it, but of my left hand ; and though I shall be
foolish in saying more to this purpose, yet since it will be such a
folly as wisest men go about to commit, have only confessed and
so committed, I may trust with more reason, because with more
folly, to have courteous pardon. For although a poet, soaring in
the high region of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes
about him, might, without apology, speak more of himself than I
mean to do ; yet for me sitting here below in the cool element of
prose, a mortal thing among many readers, of no empyreal con-
ceit, to venture and divulge unusual things of myself I shall peti-
tion to the gentler sort, it may not be envy to me. I must say,
therefore, that after I had, for my first years, by the ceaseless
diligence and care of my father, whom God recompense, been
exercised to the tongues, and some sciences, as my age would
suffer, by sundry masters and teachers, both at home and at the
schools, it was found that whether aught was imposed me by
them that had the overlooking, or betaken to of mine own choice
in English, or other tongue, prosing or versing, but chiefly this
latter, the style, by certain vital signs it had, was likely to live.
But much latelier, in the private academies of Italy, whither I
was favoured to resort, perceiving that some trifles which I had
in memory, composed at under twenty or thereabout, (for the
manner is that every one must give some proof of his wit and
reading there,) met with acceptance above what was looked for ;
and other things which I had shifted, in scarcity of books and
conveniences, to patch up amongst them, was received with

VOL. III. 2 H

482 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILTOK.

written encomiums, which the Italian is not forward to bestow on
men of this side the Alps, I began thus far to assent both to them
and divers of my friends here at home, and not less to an inward
prompting, which now grew daily upon me, that by labour and
intent study, (which I take to be my portion in this life,) joined
with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave some-
thing so written, to after-times, as they should not willingly let it
die. These thoughts at once possessed me, and these other;
that if I were certain to write as men buy leases, for three lives
and downward, there ought no regard be sooner had than to God's
glory, by the honour and instruction of my country. For which
cause and not only for that I knew it would be hard to arrive at
the second rank among the Latins, I applied myself to that
resolution which Ariosto followed against the persuasions ot
Bembo, to fix all the industry and art I could unite to the adorn-
ing of my native tongue ; not to make verbal curiosities the end,
(that were a toilsome vanity,) but to be an interpreter and relater
of the best and sagest things among mine own citizens throughout
this island, in the mother dialect. That what the greatest and
choicest wits of Athens, Rome, or modern Italy, and those
Hebrews of old did for their country, I, in my proportion, with
this over and above, of being a Christian, might do for mine ; not
caring to be once named abroad, though perhaps I could attain
to that, but content with these British islands as my world ; whose
fortune hath hitherto been, that if the Athenians, as some say,
made their small deeds great and renowned by their eloquent
writers, England hath had her noble achievements made small by
the unskilful handling of monks and mechanics.

Time serves not now, and perhaps I might seem too profuse,
to give any certain account of what the mind at home, in the
spacious circuits of her musing, hath liberty to propose to herself,
though of highest hope, and hardest attempting. Whether that
epic form, whereof the two poems of Homer, and those other
two of Virgil and Tasso, are a diffuse, and the book of Job a
brief model ; or whether the rules of Aristotle herein are strictly
to be kept, or nature to be followed, which in them that know

MILTON.] OF HIS OWN STUDIES. 483

art, and use judgment, is no transgression, but an enriching of
art. And lastly, what king or knight before the conquest, might
be chosen, in whom to lay the pattern of a Christian hero. And
as Tasso gave to a prince of Italy his choice, whether he would
command him to write of Godfrey's expedition against the
infidels, or Belisarius against the Goths, or Charlemagne against
the Lombards ; if to the instinct of nature and the emboldening
of art aught may be trusted, and that there be nothing adverse in
our climate, or the fate of this age, it haply would be no rashness,
from an equal diligence and inclination, to present the like offer
in our own ancient stories. Or whether those dramatic constitu-
tions, wherein Sophocles and Euripides reign, shall be found more
doctrinal and exemplary to a nation. The Scripure also affords
us a divine pastoral drama in the Song of Solomon, consisting of
two persons, and a double chorus, as Origen rightly judges ; and
the Apocalypse of St John is the majestic image of a high and
stately tragedy, shutting up and intermingling her solemn scenes
and acts with a seven-fold chorus of hallelujahs and harping
symphonies. And this my opinion, the grave authority of Pareus,
commenting that book, is sufficient to confirm. Or if occasion
shall lead, to imitate those magnific odes and hymns, wherein
Pindarus and Callimachus are in most things worthy, some others
in their frame judicious, in their matter most an end faulty. But
those frequent songs throughout the laws and prophets, beyond
all these, not in their divine argument alone, but in the very
critical art of composition, may be easily made appear over all
the kinds of lyric poesy to be incomparable. These abilities
wheresoever they be found, are the inspired gift of God, rarely
bestowed, but yet to some (though most abuse) in every nation ;
and are of power, beside the office of a pulpit, to in-breed and
cherish in a great people the seeds of virtue and public civility ;
to allay the perturbations of the mind and set the affections in
right tune ; to celebrate in glorious and lofty hymns the throne
and equipage of God's Almightiness, and what He suffers to be
wrought with high providence in His Church ; to sing victorious
agonies of martyrs and saints, the deeds and triumphs of just and

484 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILTON.

pious nations, doing valiantly through faith against the enemies
of Christ ; to deplore the general relapses of kingdoms and states
from justice and God's true worship. Lastly, whatsoever in
religion is holy and sublime, in virtue amiable and grave, whatso-
ever hath passion or admiration in all the changes of that which
is called fortune from without, or the wily subtleties and refluxes
of man's thoughts from within ; all these things, with a solid and
treatable smoothness, to point out and describe. Teaching over
the whole book of sanctity and virtue, through all the instances
of examples, with such delight to those especially of soft and
delicious temper, who will not so much as look upon truth her-
self, unless they see her elegantly dressed ; that whereas the paths
of honesty and good life appear now rugged and difficult, though
they be indeed easy and pleasant, they will then appear to all
men both easy and pleasant, though they were ragged and diffi-
cult indeed. And what a benefit this would be to our youth and
gentry, may be soon guessed by what we know of the corruption
and bane which they suck in daily from the writings and inter-
ludes of libidinous and ignorant poetasters, who having scarce
ever heard of that which is the main consistence of a true poem,
the choice of such persons as they ought to introduce, and what
is moral and decent to each one, do for the most part lay up
vicious principles in sweet pills, to be swallowed down, and make
the taste of virtuous documents harsh and sour. But because the
spirit of man cannot demean itself lively in this body, without
some recreating intermission of labour, and serious things, it were
happy for the commonwealth, if our magistrates, as in those
famous governments of old, would take into their care, not only
the deciding of our contentious law cases and brawls, but the
managing of our public sports and festival pastimes, that they
might be, not such as were authorised a while since, the provoca-
tions of drunkenness and lust, but such as may inure and harden
our bodies, by martial exercises, to all warlike skill and per-
formance ; and may civilise, adorn, and make discreet our minds,
by the learned and affable meeting of frequent academies, and
the procurement of wise and artful recitations, sweetened with

MILTON.I OF HIS OWN STUDIES. 485

eloquent and graceful enticements to the love and practice of
justice, temperance, and fortitude, instructing and bettering the
nation at all opportunities, that the call of wisdom and virtue may
be heard everywhere, as Solomon saith : " She crieth without, she
uttereth her voice in the streets, in the top of high places, in the
chief concourse, and in the openings of the gates." Whether this
may not be only in pulpits, but after another persuasive method,
at set and solemn paneguries, in theatres, porches, or what other
place or way may win most upon the people, to receive at once
both recreation and instruction ; let them in authority consult.
The thing which I had to say, and those intentions which have
lived within me, ever since I could conceive myself anything"
worth to my country, I return to crave excuse, that urgent reason
hath plucked from me, by an abortive and foredated discovery.
And the accomplishment of them lies not but in a power above
man's to promise ; but that none hath by more studious ways
endeavoured, and with more unwearied spirit that none shall,
that I dare almost aver of myself, as far as life and free leisure
will extend ; and that the land had once enfranchised herself
from this impertinent yoke of prelacy, under whose inquisitorious
and tyrannical duncery no free and splendid wit can flourish.
Neither do I think it shame to covenant with any knowing
reader, that for some few years yet I may go on trust with him
toward the payment of whom I am now indebted, as being a
work not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours ot
wine ; like that which flows at waste from the pen of some
vulgar amorist, or the trencher-fury of a rhyming parasite ; nor to
be obtained by the invocation of dame Memory and her syren
daughters ; but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit, who can
enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out His
seraphim with the hallowed fire of His altar, to touch and purify
the lips of whom He pleases. To this must be added industrious
and select reading, steady observation, insight into all seemly and
generous arts and affairs ; till which in some measure be com-
passed, at mine own peril and cost, I refuse not to sustain this
expectation from as many as are not loth to hazard so much

486 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. (MILTON.

credulity upon the best pledges that I can give them. Although
it nothing content me to have disclosed thus much beforehand,
but that I trust hereby to make it manifest with what small
willingness I endure to interrupt the pursuit of no less hopes than
these, and leave a calm and pleasing solitariness, fed with cheer-
ful and confident thoughts, to embark in a troubled sea of noises
and hoarse disputes ; from beholding the bright countenance of
truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies, to come into
the dim reflection of hollow antiquities sold by the seeming bulk,
and there be fain to club quotations with men whose learning and
belief lies in marginal stuffings ; who when they have like good
sumpters laid you down their horse-load of citations and fathers
at your door, with a rhapsody of who and who were bishops here
or there, you may take off their pack-saddles, their day's work is
done, and episcopacy, as they think, stoutly vindicated. Let any
gentle apprehension that can distinguish learned pains from un-
learned drudgery, imagine what pleasure or profoundness can be
in this, or what honour to deal against such adversaries. But
were it the meanest under-service, if God, by His secretary,
conscience, enjoin it, it were sad for me if I should draw back ;
for me especially, now when all men offer their aid to help, ease,
and lighten the difficult labours of the Church, to whose service,
by the intentions of my parents and friends, I was destined of a
child, and in mine own resolutions, till coming to some maturity
of years, and perceiving what tyranny had invaded the Church,
that he who would take orders, must subscribe slave, and take an
oath withal ; which unless he took with a conscience that would
retch, he must either strait perjure, or split his faith ; I thought it
better to prefer a blameless silence, before the sacred office of
speaking, bought and begun with servitude and forswearing.
Howsoever, thus church-outed by the prelates, hence may appeal
the right I have to meddle in these matters j as before the neces-
sity and constraint appeared.

SCROPE.T HABITS OF THE RED DEER. 487

262.— jp afrits 0f % licir §m.

SCROPE.

[THE following interesting contribution to Natural History is from a spirited
and agreeable volume, published in 1838 — "The Art of Deer-Stalking," by
W. Scrope, Esq.]

The red deer is not a very hardy animal ; he does not by
choice subsist on coarse food, but eats close, like a sheep. With
his body weakened and wasted during the rutting season in the
autumn, exposed to constant anxiety and irritation, engaged in
continual combats, he feels all the rigours of winter approaching
before he has time to recruit his strength : — the snow storm comes
on, and the bitter blast drives him from the mountains. Subdued
by hunger, he wanders to the solitary shielings of the shepherds ;
and will sometimes follow them through the snow, with irresolute
steps, as they are carrying the provender to the sheep. He falls,
perhaps into moss pits and mountain tarns, whilst in quest of
decayed water plants, where he perishes prematurely from utter
inability to extricate himself. Many, again, who escape starva-
tion, feed too greedily on coarse herbage at the first approach of
open weather, which produces a murrain amongst them, not un-
like the rot in sheep, of which they frequently die. Thus, natural
causes, inseparable from the condition of deer in a northern
climate, and on a churlish soil unsheltered by woods, conspire to
reduce these animals to so feeble a state, that the short summer
which follows is wholly insufficient to bring them to the size they
are capable of attaining under better management.

If we look at the difference in size and weight of two three-year
old beasts, the one belonging to a good, and the other to a bad
farmer, we shall find that difference to amount to nearly double.
The first animal is well fed for the sake of the calf, both in winter
and summer ; and the last, from insufficient keep, loses in winter
what it has gained in summer, and requires double the food in the
succeeding season to restore it to what it was at the commence-
ment of winter. Thus it is with the deer.

488 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

About the end of September, and the first week in October, the
harts swell in their necks, have a ruff of long wiry hair about them,
and are drawn up in their bodies like greyhounds. They now
roll restlessly in the peat pools till they become almost black
with mire, and feed chiefly on a light-coloured moss, that grows
on the round tops of hills, so that they do not differ so entirely
from the rein-deer in their food as some naturalists have im-
agined.

In this state of rutting they are rank, and wholly unfit for the
table. Such deer a good sportsman never fires at ; but many may
be found at this time, not so forward, but perfectly good ; and
they are, of course, easily distinguished. This is a very wild and
picturesque season. The harts are heard roaring all over the
forest, and are engaged in savage conflicts with each other, which
sometimes terminate fatally. When a master hart has collected a
number of hinds, another will endeavour to take them from him :
they fight till one of them, feeling himself worsted, will run in
circles round the hinds, being unwilling to leave them : the other
pursues, and when he touches the fugitive with the points of his
horns, the animal thus gored either bounds suddenly on one side,
and then turns and faces him, or will dash off to the right or the
left, and at once give up the contest. The conflict, however,
generally continues a considerable time ; and nothing can be more
entertaining than to witness, as I have done, the varied successes
and address of the combatants. It is a sort of wild just, in the
presence of the dames, who, as of old, bestow their favours upon
the most valiant.

A conflict of this savage nature, which happened in one of the
Duke of Gordon's forests, was fatal to both of the combatants.
Two large harts, after a furious and deadly thrust, had entangled
their horns so firmly together that they were inextricable, and the
victor remained with the vanquished. In this situation they were
discovered by the forester, who killed the survivor, whilst he was
yet struggling to release himself from his dead antagonist. The
horns remain at Gordon Castle, still locked together as they were

SCROPE.J HABITS OF THE RED DEER. 489

found. Mezentius himself never attached the dead body to the
living one in a firmer manner.

Deer, except in certain embarrassed situations, always run up
wind ; and so strongly is this instinct implanted in them, that if
you catch a calf, be it ever so young, and turn it down wind, it
will immediately face round and go in the opposite direction.
Thus they go forward over hill-tops and unexplored ground in
perfect security, for they can smell the taint in the air at an almost
incredible distance. On this account they are fond of lying in
open corries, where the swells of wind corne occasionally from all
quarters.

I have said that deer go up wind, but by clever management,
and employing men to give them their wind, (these men being
concealed from their view,) they may be driven down it ; and in
certain cases they may easily be sent, by a side wind, towards that
part of the forest which they consider as their sanctuary.

It is to be noted that on the hill-side the largest harts lie at the
bottom of the parcel, and the smaller ones above ; indeed, these
fine fellows seem to think themselves privileged to enjoy their
ease, and impose the duty of keeping guard upon the hinds, and
upon their juniors. In the performance of this task, the hinds
are always the most vigilant, and when deer are driven they almost
always take the lead. When, however, the herd is strongly beset
on all sides, and great boldness and decision are required, you
shall see the master hart come forward courageously, like a great
leader as he is, and, with his confiding band, force his way
through all obstacles. In ordinary cases, however, he is of a
most ungallant and selfish disposition ; for, when he apprehends
danger from the rifle, he will rake away the hinds with his
horns, and get in the midst of them, keeping his antlers as low
as possible.

There is no animal more shy or solitary by nature than the red
deer. He takes the note of alarm from every living thing on the
moor — all seem to be his sentinels. The sudden start of any
animal, the springing of a moor-fowl, the complaining note of a
plover, or of the smallest bird in distress, will set him off in an

490 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ScRorK.

instant. He is always most timid when he does not see his ad-
versary, for then he suspects an ambush. If, on the contrary, he
has him in full view, he is as cool and circumspect as possible ;
he then watches him most acutely, endeavours to discover his in-
tention, and takes the best possible method to defeat it. In this
case, he is never in a hurry or confused, but repeatedly stops and
watches his disturber's motions ; and when at length he does take
his measure, it is a most decisive one ; a whole herd will some-
times force their way at the very point where the drivers are the
most numerous and where there are no rifles ; so that I have seen
the hill-men fling their sticks at them, while they have raced away
without a shot being fired.

When a stag is closely pursued by dogs, and feels that he cannot
escape from them, he flies to the best position he can, and defends
himself to the last extremity. This is called going to bay. If he
is badly wounded, or very much over-matched in speed, he has
little choice of ground ; but if he finds himself stout in the chase,
and is pursued in his native mountains, he will select the most
defensible spot he has it in his power to reach ; and woe be unto
the dog that approaches him rashly. His instinct always leads him
to the rivers, where his long legs give him a great advantage
over the deer-hounds. Firmly he holds his position, whilst they
swim powerless about him, and would die from cold and fatigue
before they could make the least impression on him. Sometimes
he will stand upon a rock in the midst of the river, making a most
majestic appearance ; and in this case it will always be found that
the spot on which he stands is not approachable on his rear. In
this situation he takes such a sweep with his antlers that he could
exterminate a whole pack of the most powerful lurchers that were
pressing too closely upon him in front. He is secure from all but
man, and the rifle-shot must end him. Superior dogs may pull
him down when running, but not when he stands at bay.

The deer, like many other animals, seems to foresee every change
of weather ; at the approach of a storm they leave the higher hills
and descend to the low grounds ; sometimes even two days before
the change takes place. Again, at the approach of a thaw, they

SCROPE.] HABITS OF THE RED D£EK. 49!

leave the low grounds and go to the mountains by a similar anti-
cipation of change. They never perish in snow-drifts, like sheep,
since they do not shelter themselves in hollows, but keep the bare
ground, and eat the tops of the heather.

One would imagine that in a severe storm many would perish
by avalanches. But, during the long period of sixty years, Mr
John Crerer remembers but two accidents of this nature. These
were in Glen Mark : eleven were killed by one fall, and twenty-
one by another : the snow in its descent carried the deer along
with it into the glen and across the burn, and roiled up a little
way on the opposite brae, where the animals were smothered.

Harts are excellent swimmers, and will pass from island to
island in quest of hinds or change of food. It is asserted that
the rear hart in swimming rests his head on the croup of the one
before him ; and that all follow in the same manner.

When a herd of deer are driven, they follow each other in a
line j so that when they cross the stalker it is customary for him
to be quiet, and suffer the leaders to pass before he raises his rifle.
If he were to fire at the first that appeared, he would probably
turn the whole of them ; or if he were to run forward injudiciously
after a few had passed, the remainder, instead of following the
others in a direct line, would not cross him except under particu-
lar circumstances and dispositions of ground, but would bear off
an end, and join the others afterwards. It must be remarked,
however, that when deer are hard pressed by a dog, they run in a
compact mass, the tail ones endeavouring to wedge themselves
into it. They will also run in this manner when pressed by drivers
on the open moor. But they are sensible that they could not pass
the narrow oblique paths that are trodden out by them in the pre-
cipitous and stony parts of the mountain, or encounter the many
obstructions of rock, river, and precipice, that rugged nature is
continually opposing to them, in any other manner than in rank
and file. If they did, they must separate, and lose the wind,
which is not their system.

They do not run well up hill when fat, but they will beat any
dog in such oblique paths as I have mentioned. The hardness
and sharp edges of their hoof give them great tenacity, and pre-

492

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

[VARIOUS.

vent them suffering from the stones, whilst a dog, having no fence
against injury, is obliged to slacken his pace.

The bone also of a deer's foot is small and particularly hard ; it is
this peculiar construction which renders the animal as strong as
he is fleet. The support and strength of the joints of the feet of
all animal bodies, according to Sir E. Home, depends less upon
their own ligaments than upon the action of the muscles whose
tendons pass over them. "This fact/' he says, "was strongly
impressed on my mind in the early part of my medical education,
by seeing a deer which leaped over the highest fences, and the
joints of whose feet, when examined, were as rigid, in every other
direction but that of their motion, as the bone itself; but when
the tendon Achilles, which passed over the joint, was divided with
a view to keep the animal from running away, the foot could
readily be moved in any direction, the joint no longer having the
smallest firmness."

263.—

VARIOUS.

OUR Sea Songs have a character of their own which is identi-
cal with the character of a sea-girt people. It is not mere fancy

VARIOUS.] SEA SONGS. 493

to believe that there is something peculiar in that character.
The extent and variety of these songs render a small selection
quite inadequate to exhibit their freshness, their heartiness, their
thorough knowledge of a sailor's life.

One of the most popular, as well as the most refined of these
songs, is the famous ballad of GAY. The air of this ballad has
been attributed to Handel ; but it was the composition of Lever-
idge, a bass-singer, who also composed " The Roast Beef of Old
England."

BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,

The streamers waving in the wind,
When Black-eyed Susan came on board,

" Oh ! where shall I my true love find ?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sail among the crew."

William, then high upon the yard,

Rock'd with the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sigh'd and cast his eyes below ;
The cord slides quickly through his glowing hands,
And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,)

And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

" O Susan ! Susan ! lovely dear !

My vows shall ever true remain !
Let me kiss off that falling tear —

We only part to meet again.
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

Believe not what the landsmen say,

Who tempt with doubt thy constant mind j

They '11 tell thee sailors when away,
In every port a mistress find —

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,

For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

494 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

If to far India's coast we sail,

Thine eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white ;
Thus every beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Though battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn :
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,

William shall to his dear return :
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread ;
No longer must she stay aboard ;

They kiss'd — she sigh'd — he hung his head :
The lessening boat unwilling rows to land —
" Adieu ! " she cries, and waved her lily hand.

THE STORM.

This noble song is generally attributed to George Alexander
Stevens, a well-known actor half a century ago, and is printed
among his other productions. It has, however, been contended
that the writer was William Falconer, the author of "The Ship-
wreck." The air to which it is set and sung is an old one of the
middle of the seventeenth century, attached to a sea song, " Come
listen to my ditty." " The Storm " was made universally popular
by Incledon.

Cease, rude Boreas, blustering Down top-gallants quick be hauling :

railer ! Down your stay-sails, hand, boys,

List, ye landsmen, all to me ! hand !

Messmates, hear a brother sailor Now it freshens, set the braces,

Sing the dangers of the sea ; Quick the topsail-sheets let go,

From bounding billows, fast in Luff, boys, luff ! don't make wry faces,

motion, Up your topsails nimbly clew.
When the distant whirlwinds rise, __ .,

To the tempest-troubled ocean, N™ a" ?™ on down -beds sportmg,

Where the seas contend with skies. ^ *™&l lock d m beauty s *r-ms '>

Fresh enjoyments wanton courting,

Hark ! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, Safe from all but love's alarms !
By topsail-sheets and haul-yards Round us roars the tempest louder ;
stand 1 Think what fear our minds enthrals j

VARIOUS.]

SEA SONGS.

495

Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
Now again the boatswain calls !

The topsail-yards point to the wind,

boys,

See all clear to reef each course ;
Let the foresheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be

worse.
Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get,

Reef the mizen, see all clear ;
Hands up, each preventive-brace set,
Man the foreyard, cheer, lads,
cheer !

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,

Peal on peal contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,

In our eyes blue lightnings flash.
One wide water all around us,

All above us one black sky,
Different deaths at once surround us :

Hark ! what means that dreadful

cry'

gone, cries every

The foremast's
tongue out,

O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck ;
A leek beneath the chest-tree's sprung

out,

Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick the lanyards cut to pieces ;
Come, my hearts, be stout and
boldj

Plumb the well — the leak increases,
Four feet water in the hold !

While o'er the ship wild waves are

beating,

We for wives and children mourn,
Alas ! from hence there 's no retreat-
ing,

Alas ! to them there 's no return.
Still the leak is gaining on us ;
Both chain pumps are choked

below —

Heaven have mercy here upon us,
For only that can save us now.

O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys,

Let the guns o'erboard be thrown ,
To the pump let every hand, boys ;

See ! our mizen-mast is gone.
The leak we 've found, it cannot pour
fast,

We 've lightened her a foot or more ;
Up, and rig a jury foremast,

She rights, she rights ! boys — we 're
off shore.

Now once more on joys we 're thinking,

Since kind Heaven has saved our lives;

Come, the can, boys ! let's be drinking

To our sweethearts and our wives.

Fill it up, about ship wheel it,

Close to lips a brimmer join ;
Where's the tempest now — who feels it?
None — the danger 's drown'd in wine.

POOR JACK.

The greatest writer of Sea-Songs was CHARLES DIBDIN. He
was a musician as well as a poet. It is not too much to say that
his songs were worth more for national defence than a hundred
" towers along the steep." His songs are now provided in abun-
dant volumes for every ship of our navy. We give his " Poor
Jack," — the very perfection of simplicity and pathos.

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d' ye see,
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ;

496 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.

A tight water-boat and good sea-room give me,

And 'tain't to a little I '11 strike ;
Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack smooth should smite,

And shiver each splinter of wood, '
Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight,

And under reef 'd foresail we 'Iftcud :
Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft

To be taken for trifles aback ;
For they say there 's a Providence sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

Why, I heard our good chaplain palaver one day

About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ;
And, my timbers ! what lingo he 'd coil and belay,

Why 'twas just all as one as High Dutch :
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d' ye see,

Without orders that come down below ;
And many fine things that proved clearly to me

That Providence takes us in tow :
For says he, do ye mind me, let storms e'er so oft

Take the topsails of sailors aback,
There 's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

I said to our Poll, for, d' ye see, she would cry,

When last we weigh'd anchor for sea,
What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye,

Why, what a damn'd fool you must be !
Can't you see the world 's wide, and there 's room for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore,
And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll,

Why, you '11 ne'er hear of me more :
What then, all 's a hazard, come don't be so soft,

Perhaps I may laughing come back ;
For, d' ye see, there 's a cherub sits smiling aloft,

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

D' ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch

All as one as a piece of the ship,
And with her brave the world without offering to flinch.

From the moment the anchor 's a-trip.
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,

Nought 's a trouble from duty that springs,
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino 's my friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the king's;

PROFESSOR JONES.] COTTIER RENTS. 497

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft

As for grief to be taken aback,
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft,

"Will look out a good berth for Poor Jack.

264.—

PROFESSOR JONES.

[THE Reverend Richard Jones was Professor of Political Economy and
History at the noble establishment of the East India Company at Haileybury,
for the education of their civil officers. Mr Jones was the successor of Mal-
thus. His great talents, his extensive and varied knowledge, and the practical
character of his understanding, eminently fitted him for a teacher in this difficult
science. He died in 1855. His principal work is an octavo volume, published
in 1831, on "The Distribution of Wealth," in which the subject of rent is
treated, not as a metaphysical theory, but with a careful examination of all
the various systems prevailing in the world, by which revenue is derived from
land. Our extract is taken from this work.]

Under the head of Cottier Rents, we may include all rents con-
tracted to be paid in money by peasant tenants extracting their
own maintenance from the soil.

They are found to some extent in various countries ; but it is
in Ireland alone that they exist in such a mass, as palpably to in-
fluence the general state of the country. They differ from the
other classes of peasant rents in this the most materially ; that it
is not enough for the tenant to be prepared to give in return for
the land which enables him to maintain himself a part of his
labour, as in the case of serf rents, or a definite proportion of the
produce, 'as in the case of metayer or ryot rents. He is bound,
whatever the quantity or value of his produce may be, to pay a
fixed sum of money to the proprietor.* This is a change most
difficult to introduce, and very important when introduced.
Money payments from the occupiers are by no means essential,
we must recollect, to the rise or progress of rents. Over by far
the greater part of the globe such payments have never yet been

* An engagement essentially pertaining to the nature of capital, by one who
is not a capitalist. — ED.

VOL. III. 2 I

498 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PROFESSOR JONES.

established. Tenants yielding plentiful rents in produce may be
quite unable, from the infrequency of exchanges, to pay even
small sums in money, and the owners of land may, and do, form
an affluent body, consuming and distributing a large proportion
of the annual produce of a country, while it \& extremely difficult
for them to lay their hands on very insignificant sums in cash.
Money rents, indeed, are 'so very rarely paid \>y peasant cultivators,
that, where they do exist among them, we may expect to find the
power of discharging them founded on peculiar circumstances.
In the case of Ireland, it is the neighbourhood of England, and
the connexion between the two countries, which supports the
system of money rents paid by the peasantry. From all parts of
Ireland, the access, direct or indirect, to the English market, gives
the Irish cultivators means of obtaining cash for a portion of their
produce. In some districts, it even appears that the rents are
paid in money earned by harvest-work in England ; and it is re-
peatedly stated in the evidence before the Emigration Committee,
that were this resource to fail, the power of paying rents would
cease in these districts at once. Were Ireland placed in a re-
moter part of the world, surrounded by nations not more advanced
than herself, and were her cultivators dependent for their means
of getting cash on her own internal opportunities of exchange, it
seems highly probable, that the landlords would soon be driven
by necessity to adopt a system of either labour or produce rents,
similar to those which prevail over the large portion of the globe
cultivated by the other classes of peasant tenantry.

Once established, however, the effects of the prevalence of
cottier rents among a peasant population are important ; some
advantageous, some prejudicial. In estimating them, we labour
under the great disadvantage of having to form our general con-
clusions from a view of a single instance, that of Ireland. Did
we know nothing of labour rents but what we collect from one
country, Hungary for instance, how very deficient would have
been our notions of their characteristics.

The disadvantages of cottier rents may be ranged under three
heads. First, the want of any external check to assist in repress-

PROFESSOR JONES.] COTTIER RENTS. 499

ing the increase of the peasant population beyond the bounds of
an easy subsistence. Secondly, the want of any protection to
their interests, from the influence of usage and prescription in
determining the amount of their payments. And thirdly, the
absence of that obvious and direct common interest, between the
owners and the occupiers of the soil, which, under the other
systems of peasant rents, secure to the tenants the forbearance
and assistance of their landlords when calamity overtakes them.

The first, and certainly the most important disadvantage of
cottier rents, is the absence of those external checks (common to
every other class of peasant rents) which assist in repressing the
effects of the disposition found in all peasant cultivators to in-
crease up to the limits of a very scanty subsistence.

To explain this, we must, to a slight extent, anticipate the sub-
ject of population. It shall be as shortly as possible. We know
that men's animal power of increase is such as to admit of a very
rapid replenishing of the districts they inhabit. When 'their
numbers are as great as their territory will support in plenty, if
the effects of such a power of increase are not diminished, their
condition must get worse. If, however, the effects of their animal
power of multiplication are diminished, this must happen, either
from internal causes or motives, indisposing them to its full
exercise, or from external causes acting independently of their
will. But a peasant population, raising their own wages from the
soil, and consuming them in kind, whatever may be the form of
their rents, are universally acted upon very feebly by internal
checks, or by motives disposing them to restraint. The causes
of this peculiarity we shall have hereafter to point out. The
consequence is, that unless some external cause, quite inde-
pendent of this will, forces such peasant cultivators to slacken
their rate of increase, they will, in a limited territory, whatever be
the form of their rents, very rapidly approach a state of want and
penury, and will be stopped at last only by the physical impossi-
bility of procuring subsistence. Where labour or metayer rents
prevail, such external causes of repression are found in the
interests and interference of the landlords : where ryot rents are

500 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PROFESSOR JONES.

established, in the vices and mismanagement of the government :
where cottier rents prevail, no such external causes exist, and the
unchecked disposition of the people leads to a multiplication
which ends in wretchedness. Cottier rents, then, evidently differ
for the worse in this respect from serf and metayer rents. It
is not meant of course that serfs and metayers do not in-
crease till their numbers and wants would alone place them very
much at the mercy of the proprietors, but the obvious interest of
those proprietors leads them to refuse their assent to the further
division of the soil, and so to withhold the means of settling more
families, long before the earth becomes thronged with a multitu-
dinous tenantry, to which it can barely yield subsistence. The
Russian or Hungarian nobleman wants no more serf tenants than
are sufficient for the cultivation of his domain ; and he refuses
allotments of land to any greater number, or perhaps forbids them
to marry. The power of doing this at one time or other existed
as a- legal right wherever labour rents have prevailed. The
owner of a domain cultivated by metayers has an interest in not
multiplying his tenants, and the mouths to be fed, beyond the
number necessary to its complete cultivation. When he refuses
to subdivide the ground further, fresh families can find no home,
and the increase of the aggregate numbers of the people is
checked. The thinness of the population in ryot countries is
ordinarily caused by the vices and violence of the government,
and there is no question that this is what keeps so large a portion
of Asia ill-peopled or desolate. But when cottier rents have
established themselves, the influence of the landlord is not
exerted to check the multiplication of the peasant cultivators till
an extreme case arrives. The first effects of the increasing num-
bers of the people, that is, the more ardent competition for allot-
ments, and the general rise of rents, seem for a time unquestion-
able advantages to the landlords, and they have no direct or
obvious motive to refuse further subdivision, or to interfere with
the settlement of fresh families, till the evident impossibility of
getting the stipulated rents, and perhaps the turbulence of peasants
starving on insufficient patches of land, warn the proprietors that

PROFESSOR JONES.] COTTIER RENTS. 50 1

the time is come, when their own interests imperiously require
that the multiplication of the tenantry should be moderated. We
know, however, from the instance of Ireland, the only one on a
large scale open to our observation, that, while rents are actually
rising, a conviction that their nominal increase is preparing a real
diminution comes slowly, and is received reluctantly; and that
before such a conviction begins to be generally acted upon, the
cultivators may be reduced to a situation in which they are both
wretched and dangerous.

The tardiness with which landlords exert their influence in re-
pressing the multiplication of the people, must be ranked, then,
among the disadvantages of the cottier, when compared with serf
or metayer rents.

The second disadvantage is the want of any influence of custom
and prescription in keeping the terms of the contract between
the proprietors and their tenantry steady and fixed.

In surveying the habits of a serf or metayer country, we are
usually able to trace some effects of ancient usage. The numbei
of day's labour performed for the landlord by the serf remains the
same, from generation to generation, in all the provinces of con-
siderable empires. The metayer derived his old name of Colonus
Medietarius from taking half the produce ; and half the produce
we see still his usual portion, throughout large districts contain-
ing soils of very different qualities. It is true that the influence
of ancient usage does not always protect the tenant from want or
oppression ; its tendency, however, is decidedly in his favour. But
cottier rents, contracted to be paid in money, must vary in nominal
amount with the variations in the price of produce : after change
has become habitual, all traces of a rent, considered equitable be-
cause it is prescriptive, are wholly lost, and each bargain is deter-
mined by competition.

There can be little doubt that the tendency to constancy in the
terms of their contract, observable in serf and metayer countries, is on
the whole a protection to the cultivators; and that change and com-
petition, common amongst cottiers, are disadvantageous to them.

The third disadvantage of cottier rents is the absence of such a

502 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PROFESSOR Joi

direct and obvious common interest between landlord and tenai
as might secure to the cultivator assistance when in distress.

There can be no case in which there is not, in reality, a com-
munity of interest between the proprietors of the soil and those
who cultivate it ; but their common interest in the other forms of
peasant holding is more direct and obvious, and therefore more
influential, upon the habits and feelings of both tenants and land-
lords. The owner of a serf relies upon the labour of his tenants
for producing his own subsistence, and when his tenant becomes
a more inefficient instrument of cultivation, he sustains a loss.
The owner of a metairie, who takes a proportion of the produce,
cannot but see that the energy and efficiency of his tenant are his
own gain : languid and imperfect cultivation his loss. The serf,
therefore, relies upon his lord's sense of interest, or feelings of
kindness, for assistance, if his crops fail, or calamity overtakes
him in any shape, and he seldom is repulsed or deceived. This
half-recognised claim to assistance seems, we know, occasionally
so valuable to the serfs, that they have rejected freedom from the
fear of losing it. The metayers receive constantly loans of food
and other assistance from the landlord, when from any cause their
own resources fail. The fear of losing their stock, their revenue,
and all the advances already made, prevent the most reluctant
landlords from withholding aid on such occasions. Even the ryot,
miserable as he ordinarily is, and great as is the distance which
separates him from the sovereign proprietor, is not always without
some share in these advantages. His exertions are felt to be
the greac source of the revenue of the state, and under tolerably
well regulated governments, the importance is felt and admitted
of aiding the cultivators when distressed, by forbearance, and
sometimes by advances. The interests of the cottier tenant are
less obviously identified with those of the proprietor : changes of
tenants, and variations of rent, are common occurrences ; and the
removal of an unlucky adventurer, and the acceptance of a more
sanguine bidder, are expedients more easy and palatable to the
proprietor than that of mixing themselves up with the risks and
burdens of cultivation by advances to their tenants. In the

PROFESSOR JONES.] COTTIER RENTS. 503

Highlands of Scotland, indeed, the chief assisted his* clan largely.
They were his kinsmen and defenders, bound to him by ties
of blood, and the guardians of his personal safety. The habits
engendered while these feelings were fresh, are not yet worn out.
But the cottier, merely as such, the Irish cottier for instance, has
no such hold on the sympathies of his landlord ; and there can be
no question that, of the various classes of peasant tenantry, they
stand the most thoroughly desolate and alone in the time of
calamity ; that they have the least protection from the ordinary
effects of disastrous reverses, or of the failure of their scanty re-
sources from any other causes.

Such are the disadvantages of this the least extensive system of
peasant rents. The principal advantage the cottier derives from
his form of tenure is the great facility with which, when circum-
stances are favourable to him, he changes altogether his condition
in society. In serf, metayer, or ryot countries, extensive changes
must take place in the whole frame-work of society, before the
peasants become capitalists, and independent farmers. The serf
has many stages to go through before he arrives at this point. The
metayer, too, must become the owner of the stock on his farm,
and be able to undertake to pay a money rent. Both changes
take place slowly and with difficulty, especially the last, the sub-
stitution of money rents, which supposes a considerable previous
improvement in the internal commerce of the nation, and is or-
dinarily the result, not the commencement, of improvement in the
condition of the cultivators. But the cottier is already the owner
of his own stock, he exists in a society in which the power of pay-
ing money rents is already established. If he thrives in his occu-
pation, there is nothing to prevent his enlarging his holding, in-
creasing his stock, and becoming a capitalist, and a farmer in the
proper sense of the word. It is pleasing to hear the resident Irish
landlords, who have taken some pains, and made some sacrifices,
to improve the character and condition of their tenantry, bearing
their testimony to this fact, and stating the rapidity with which
some of the cottiers have, under their auspices, acquired stock,
and become small farmers. Most of the countries occupied by

504 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PROFESSOR JONES.

metayers, serfs, and ryots, will probably contain a similar race of
tenantry for some ages. If the events of the next half century
are favourable to Ireland, her cottiers are likely to disappear, and
to be merged in a very different race of cultivators. The facility
for gliding out of their actual condition to a higher and a better
is an advantage, and a very great advantage, of the cottier over
the other systems of peasant rents, and atones for some of its
gloomier features.

Making allowances for the peculiarities pointed out, the effects
of cottier rents on the wages of labour and other relations of
society, will be similar to those of other peasant rents. The
quantity of produce being determined by the fertility of the soil,
the extent of the allotment, and the skill and industry of the
cottier ; the division of that produce on which his wages depend
is determined by his contract with the landlord, and by the rent
he pays. And again, the whole amount of produce being deter-
mined as before, the landlord's share, the rent, depends upon the
maintenance left to the peasant, that is, upon his wages.

The existence of rent under a system of cottier tenants is in no
degree dependent upon the existence of different qualities of soil,
or of different returns to the stock and labour employed. Where,
as has been repeatedly observed, no funds sufficient to support
the body of the labourers are in existence, they must raise food
themselves from the earth or starve ; and this circumstance would
make them tributary to the landlords, and give rise to rents, and,
as their number increased, to very high rents, though all the
lands were perfectly equal in quality.

Cottier rents, like other peasant rents, may increase from two
causes ; first, from an increase of the whole produce, of which in-
crease the landlord takes the whole or a part ; or the produce re-
maining stationary, they may increase from an augmentation of
the landlord's share, that of the tenant being diminished to the
exact amount of the additional rent.

When the rent increases and the produce remains stationary,
the increase of rent indicates no increase of the riches and revenue
of the country : there has been a transfer of wealth but no addition

D'At'BiGNfi.] MOVEMENT OF THE REFORMATION. 505

to it : one party is impoverished to the precise amount to which
another is enriched.

When, on the other hand, increased rents are paid by increased
produce, there is an addition to the wealth of the country ; not a
mere transfer of that already existing ; the country is richer to the
extent, at least, of the increased rent ; and, probably, to a greater
extent, from the increased revenues of the cultivators.

It is obviously the interest of the landlord of cottier, as of other
peasant tenants, that an increase of his rents should always
originate in the prosperity of cultivation, not in pressure on the
tenants. The power of increase from the last source is very
limited, from improvement indefinite.

It is clearly too the interest of the landlord that the cottier
tenantry should be replaced by capitalists, capable of pushing
cultivation to the full extent to which both skill and means can
carry it, instead of the land being intrusted to the hands of mere
labourers struggling to exist, unable to improve, and, when much
impoverished by competition, degraded, turbulent, and dangerous.

265 — gfofreiwni 0f ifre

D'AUBIGNE.

[THE "History of the Reformation of the Sixteenth Century," by J. H.
Merle D'Aubigne. D.D., President of the Theological School of Geneva, and
Vice- President of the Societe Evangelique, is amongst the most popular of
modern books.]

A great movement was going on. The Reformation, which,
after the Diet of Worms, had been thought to be confined with its
first teacher in the narrow chamber of a strong castle was break-
ing forth in every part of the empire, and so to speak, throughout
Christendom. The two classes, hitherto mixed up together, were
now beginning to separate : and the partisans of a monk, whose
only defence was his tongue, now took their stand fearlessly in
the face of the servants of Charles V. and Leo X. Luther had

506 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS,

scarcely left the walls of the Wartburg, the Pope had excommuni
cated all his adherents, the imperial diet had just condemned
doctrine, the princes were endeavouring to crush it in most of tt
German states, the ministers of Rome were lowering it in the eye
of the people by their violent invectives, and the other states of
Christendom were calling upon Germany to sacrifice a man whose
assaults they feared even at a distance ; and yet this new sect, few
in numbers, and among whose numbers there was no organisation,
no bond of union, nothing in short that concentrated their common
power, was already frightening the vast, ancient, and powerful
sovereignty of Rome by the energy of its faith and the rapidity of
its conquests. On all sides, as in the first warm days of spring,
the seed was bursting from the earth spontaneously and without
effort. Every day showed some new progress. Individuals,
villages, towns, whole cities, joined in this new confession of the
name of Jesus Christ. There was unpitying opposition, there
were terrible persecutions, but the mysterious power that urged
all these people onward was irresistible ; and the persecuted,
quickening their steps, going forward through exile, imprison-
ment, and the burning pile, everywhere prevailed over their per-
secutors.

The monastic orders that Rome had spread over Christendom,
like a net intended to catch souls and keep them prisoners, were
the first to break their bonds, and rapidly to propagate the new
doctrine throughout the Church. The Augustines of Saxony had
walked with Luther, and felt that inward experience of the Holy
Word which, by putting them in possession of God himself, de-
throned Rome and her lofty assumptions. But in the other
convents .of the order evangelical light had dawned in like
manner. Sometimes they were old men, who, like Staupitz, had
preserved the sound doctrines of truth in the midst of deluded
Christendom, and who now besought God to permit them to
depart in peace, for their eyes had seen His salvation. At other
times they were young men, who had received Luther's teaching
with the eagerness peculiar to their age. The Augustine con-
verts at Nuremberg, Osnabruck, Dillingen, Ratisbon, Strasburg,

D'AuBiGNfi.] MOVEMENT OF THE REFORMATION. 507

and Antwerp, with those in Hesse and Wiirtemberg, turned
towards Jesus Christ, and by their courage excited the wrath of
Rome.

But this movement was not confined to the Augustines only.
High-spirited men imitated them in the monasteries of other
orders, and notwithstanding the clamours of the monks, who
would not abandon their carnal observances, notwithstanding
the anger, contempt, sentences, discipline, and imprisonments of
the cloister, they fearlessly raised their voices in behalf of that
holy and precious truth, which they had found at last after so
many painful inquiries, such despair and doubt, and such inward
struggle. In the majority of the cloisters the most spiritual,
pious, and learned monks declared for the Reformation. In the
Franciscan convent at Ulm, Eberlin and Kettenbach attacked
the slavish works of monasticism, and the superstitious obser-
vances of the Church, with an eloquence capable of moving the
whole nation ; and they called for the immediate abolition of the
monasteries and houses of ill fame. Another Franciscan, Stephen
Kempe, preached the gospel at Hamburg, and, alone, presented
a firm front to the hatred, envy, menaces, snares, and attacks of
the priests, who were irritated at seeing the crowd abandon their
altars, and flock with enthusiasm to hear his sermons.

Frequently the superiors in the convents were the first led
away in the path of reform. At Halberstadt, Neuenwerk, Halle,
and Sagan, the priors set the example to their monks, or at least
declared that, if a monk felt his conscience burdened by the
weight of monastic vows, far from detaining him in the convent,
they would take him by the shoulders and thrust him out of
doors.

Indeed, throughout all Germany, the monks were seen laying
down their frocks and cowls at the gates of their monasteries.
Some were expelled by the violence of the brethren or the
abbots ; others, of mild and pacific character, could no longer
endure the continual disputes, abuse, clamour, and hatred, which
pursued them even in their slumbers ; the majority were con-
vinced that monastic life was opposed to the will of God and to

508 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

a Christian life ; some had arrived at this conviction by degrees ;
and others suddenly, by reading a passage in the Bible. The
sloth, grossness, ignorance, and degradation that constituted the
very nature of the mendicant orders inspired with indescribable
disgust all men of elevated mind, who could no longer support
the society of their vulgar associates. One day a Franciscan,
going his rounds, stopped with the box in his hand begging alms
at a blacksmith's forge, of Nurnberg. "Why," said the smith,
" do you not gain your bread by the work of your own hands ?"
At these words the sturdy monk threw away his staff, and seizing
the hammer plied it vigorously on the anvil. The useless men-
dicant had become an honest workman. His box and frock
were sent back to the monastery.

The monks were not the only persons who rallied round the
standard of the gospel ; priests in still greater numbers began
to preach the new doctrines. But preachers were not required
for its propagation ; it frequently acted on men's minds, and
aroused them from their deep slumber without any one having
spoken.

Luther's writings were read in cities, towns, and even villages ;
at night by the fireside the schoolmaster would often read them
aloud to an attentive audience. Some of the hearers were
affected by their perusal ; they would take up the Scriptures to
clear away their doubts, and were struck with surprise at the
astonishing contrast between the Christianity of the Bible and
their own. After oscillating between Rome and Scripture, they
soon took refuge with that living Word which shed so new and
sweet a radiance on their hearts. While they were in this state,
some evangelical preacher, probably a priest or a monk, would
arrive. Speaking eloquently, and with conviction, he announced
that Christ had made full atonement for the sins of His people,
and demonstrated by Holy Scripture the vanity of works and
human penances. A terrible opposition would then break out ;
the clergy, and sometimes the magistrates, would strain every
nerve to bring back the souls they were about to lose. But
there was in the new preaching a harmony with Scripture and a

D'AuBiGNli] MOVEMENT OF THE REFORMATION. 509

hidden force that won all hearts, and subdued even the most
rebellious. At the peril of their goods, and of their life if need
be, they ranged themselves on the side of the gospel, and for-
sook the barren and fanatical orators of the papacy. Sometimes
the people, incensed at being so long misled, compelled them to
retire ; more frequently the priests, deserted by their flocks,
without tithes or offerings, departed voluntarily and in sadness
to seek a livelihood elsewhere. And while the supporters of the
ancient hierarchy retired from these places sorrowful and dejected,
and sometimes bidding farewell to their old flocks in the language
of anathema, the people, whom truth and liberty transported
with joy, surrounded the new preachers with acclamations, and,
thirsting for the Word of God, carried them as it were in triumph
into the church and into the pulpit.

A word of power, proceeding from God, was at that time re-
generating society. The people, or their leaders, would frequently
invite some man, celebrated for his faith, to come and enlighten
them ; and he, for love of the gospel, would immediately abandon
his interests and his family, his country and friends. Persecution
often compelled the partisans of the Reformation to leave their
homes, they reached some spot where it was as yet unknown ;
there they would find some house that offered an asylum to poor
travellers ; there they would speak of the gospel, read a chapter
to the attentive hearers, and perhaps, by the intercession of their
new friends, obtain permission to preach once publicly in the
church. . . . Then indeed a fierce fire would break out in the
city, and the greatest exertions were ineffectual to quench it. If
they could not preach in the church, they found some other spot.
Every place became a temple. At Husum, in Holstein, Her-
mann Taat, who was returning from Wittemberg, and against
whom the clergy of the parish had closed the church doors,
preached to an immense crowd in the cemetery, beneath the
shade of two large trees, not far from the spot where, seven
centuries before, Anschar had proclaimed the gospel to the
heathen. At Arnstadt, Gaspard Giittel, an Augustine monk,
preached in the market-place. At Dantzic, the gospel was

410 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [D'AuuiGN*.

announced on a little hill without the city. At Goslar, a Wittem-
berg student taught the new doctrines in a meadow, planted with
lime-trees ; whence the evangelical Christians were denominat
the Lime-tree Brethren.

While the priests were exhibiting their sordid covetousness
before the eyes of the people, the new preachers said to them,
" Freely we have received, freely do we give." The idea often
expressed by the new preachers from the pulpit, that Rome had
formerly sent the Germans a corrupted gospel, so that now for
the first time Germany heard the Word of Christ in its heavenly
and primal beauty, produced a deep impression on men's minds.
And the noble thought of the equality of all men, of a universal
brotherhood in Jesus Christ, laid strong hold upon those souls
which for so long a period had groaned beneath the yoke of
feudalism, and of the papacy of the Middle Ages.

Often would unlearned Christians, with the New Testament in
their hands, undertake to justify the doctrine of the Reformation.
The Catholics who remained faithful to Rome withdrew in
affright ; for to priests and monks alone had been assigned the
task of studying sacred literature. The latter were therefore com-
pelled to come forward ; the conference began ; but ere long,
overwhelmed by the declarations of Holy Scripture cited by these
laymen, the priests and monks knew not how to reply. . . .
" Unhappily," says Cochlaeus, " Luther had persuaded his fol-
lowers to put no faith in any other oracle than the Holy Scrip-
tures." A shout was raised in the assembly denouncing the
scandalous ignorance of these old theologians, who had hitherto
been reputed such great scholars by their own party.

Men of the lowest station, and even the weaker sex, by the aid
of God's word, persuaded and led away men's hearts. Extra-
ordinary works are the result of extraordinary times. At Ingold-
stadt, under the eyes of De Eck, a young weaver read Luther's
works to the assembled crowd. In this very city, the university
having resolved to compel a disciple of Melancthon to retract, a
woman, named Argula de Staufen, undertook his defence, and
challenged the doctors to a public disputation. Women and

D'AuuiGNl] MO VEMENT OF THE REFORM A TION. 5 1 1

children, artisans and soldiers, knew more of the Bible than the
doctors of the schools, or the priests of the altars.

Christendom was divided into two hostile bodies, and their
aspects were strikingly contrasted. Opposed to the old champions
of the hierarchy, who had neglected the study of languages and
the cultivation of literature, (as one of their own body informs
us,) were generous-minded youths, devoted to study, investigat-
ing Scripture, and familiarising themselves with the masterpieces
of antiquity. Possessing an active mind, an elevated soul, and
intrepid heart, these young men soon acquired such knowledge,
that, for a long period, none could compete with them. It was
not only the vitality of their faith which rendered them superior
to their contemporaries, but an elegance of style, a perfume of
antiquity, a sound philosophy, a knowledge of the world, com-
pletely foreign to the theologians " of the old leaven," as Coch-
laeus himself terms them. Accordingly, when those youthful
defenders of the Reformation met the Romish doctors in any
assembly, they attacked them with such ease and confidence,
that these ignorant men hesitated, became embarrassed, and fell
into a contempt merite^Hn the eyes of all.

The ancient edifice was crumbling under the load of supersti-
tion and ignorance ; the new one was rising on the foundation of
faith and learning. New elements entered deep into the lives of
the people. Torpor and dulness were in all parts succeeded by
a spirit of inquiry and a thirst for instruction. An active, en-
lightened, and living faith took the place of superstitious devotion
and ascetic meditations. Works of piety succeeded bigoted ob-
servances and penances. The pulpit prevailed over the cere-
monies of the altar ; and the ancient and sovereign authority of
God's Word was at length restored in the Church.

The printing-press, that powerful machine discovered in the
fifteenth century, came to the support of all these exertions,
and its terrible missiles were continually battering the walls of the
enemy.

The impulse which the Reformation gave to public literature in
Germany was immense. Whilst, in the year 1513, only thirty-five

512 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [D'AuBiGN

publications had appeared, and thirty-seven in 1517, the numl
of books increased with astonishing rapidity after the appearam
of Luther's Thesis. In 1518, we find seventy-one different works
in 1519, one hundred and eleven ; in 1520, two hundred am
eight ; in 1521, two hundred and eleven ; in 1522, three hundrec
and forty-seven; and in 1523, four hundred and ninety-eight.

. . And where were all these published ? For the most part at
Wittemberg. And who were their authors'? Generally Luther
and his friends. In 1522, one hundred and thirty of the Re-
former's writings were published ; and, in the year following, one
hundred and eighty-three. In this same year only twenty Roman
Catholic publications appeared. The literature of Germany thus
saw the light in the midst of struggles, contemporaneously with
her religion. Already it appeared, as later times have seen it,
learned, profound, full of boldness and activity. The national
spirit showed itself for the first time without alloy, and at the very
moment of its birth, received the baptism of fire from Christian
enthusiasm.

What Luther and his friends composed, others circulated.
Monks, convinced of the unlawfulness of monastic obligations,
and desirous of exchanging a long life of slothfulness for one of
active exertion, but too ignorant to proclaim the Word of God,
travelled through the provinces, visiting hamlets and cottages,
where they sold the books of Luther and his friends. Germany
soon swarmed with these bold colporteurs. Printers and book-
sellers eagerly welcomed every writing in defence of the Reforma-
tion, but they rejected the books of the opposite party, as generally
full of ignorance and barbarism. If any one of them ventured to
sell a book in favour of the papacy, and offered it for sale in the
fairs at Frankfort or elsewhere, merchants, purchasers, and men
of letters overwhelmed him with ridicule and sarcasm. It was in
vain that the emperor and princes had published severe edicts
against the writings of the Reformers. As soon as an inquisitorial
visit was to be paid, the dealers, who had received secret intima-
tion, concealed the books that it was intended to proscribe : and
the multitude, ever eager for what is prohibited, immediately

HOR. SMITH.] TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONFS EXHIBITION. 513

bought them up, and read them with the greatest avidity. It was
not only in Germany that such scenes were passing ; Luther's
writings were translated into French, Spanish, English, and
Italian, and circulated amongst these nations.

266.— ^bfcnsa to % gtummg irt

HORACE SMITH.

[HORACE SMITH, one of the authors of the famous " Rejected Addresses,"
is also known as the writer of several novels, and of a few miscellaneous
poems. He died at Brighton, July 12, 1849. His brother James, who died
in 1839, enjoyed, perhaps, a higher reputation for wit ; but the two will be
ever associated in the literary history of our time, not only for their success as
writers, but for that inestimable quality without which even wit is worthless,
kindliness of nature and genuine benevolence. ]

And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story !)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,

When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,

Of which the very ruins are tremendous !

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy :
Thou hast a tongue ; come, let us hear its tune ;

Thou 'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy !
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon ;

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect —
To whom should we assign the Sphynx's fame ?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either pyramid that bears his name 1

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ?

VOL. III. 2 K

514 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HoR. SMITH.

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade —
Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise play'd.
Perhaps thou wert a priest— if so* my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass.

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass,

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled,

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm' d,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :

Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that wither'd tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,

How the world look'd when it was fresh and young.
And the great deluge still had left it green j

Or was it then so old, that history's pages

Contain'd no record of its early ages ?

Still silent, incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy 1 then keep thy vows ;
But pr'ythee tell us something of thyself;

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ;
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd,
What hast thou seen 1 what strange adventures number'd ?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations j

The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations,

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON. ] ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 515

And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,

March' d armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd,

The nature of thy private life unfold.
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusky cheek have roll'd :
Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd that face ?
What was thy name and station, age and race ]

Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead !

Imperishable type of evanescence !
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecay'd within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless ligament endure,

If its undying guest be lost for ever ?
Oh, let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure

In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.

[ROBERT LEIGHTON, Archbishop of Glasgow, was the son of a Presbyterian
clergyman, who was one of the many sufferers for conscience' sake in the
reign of Charles I. He was born in 1611, at Edinburgh. The honours of

gl6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTOX.

Episcopacy were almost forced upon him in the reign of Charles II. ; but he
resigned his archbishopric, and ended his life, in 1684, in privacy and seclu-
sion. His theological works are of the very highest order. One story is re-
lated of him that completely illustrates his character. In his day a question
frequently put to the Scottish clergy at their Assemblies was, " Whether they
preached to the times ? " When Leighton's turn came, his reply was, " When
all my brethren preach to the times, suffer me to preach about eternity."]

There are many things that keep mankind employed, particu-
larly business, or rather trifles ; for so the affairs, which are in this
world considered as most important, ought to be called when
compared to that of minding our own valuable concerns, knowing
ourselves, and truly consulting our highest interests ; but how few
are there that make this their study ! The definition you com-
monly give of man is, that he is a rational creature ; though, to be
sure, it is not applicable to the generality of mankind, unless you
understand that they are such, not actually, but in power only,
and that very remote. They are, for the most part at least, more
silly and foolish than children, and, like them, fond of toys and
rattles ; they fatigue themselves, running about and sauntering
from place to place, but do nothing to purpose.

What a wonder it is that souls of a heavenly original have so
far forgot their native country, and are so immersed in dirt and
mud, that there are few men who frequently converse with them-
selves about their own state, thinking gravely of their original and
their end, seriously laying to heart, that, as the poet expresses it,
" Good and evil are set before mankind : " and who, after mature
consideration, not only think it the most wise and reasonable
course, but are also fully resolved to exert themselves to the ut-
most, in order to arrive at a sovereign contempt of earthly things,
and aspire to those enjoyments that are Divine and eternal. For
our parts, I am fully persuaded we shall be of this mind, if we
seriously reflect upon what has been said. For if there is, of
necessity, a complete, permanent, and satisfying good intended
for man, and no such good is to be found in the earth or earthly
things, we must proceed further, and look for it somewhere else ;
and, in consequence of this, conclude that man is not quite ex-

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.] ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 517

tinguished by death, but removes to another place, and that the
human soul is by all means immortal.

Many men have added a great variety of different arguments
to support this conclusion, some of them strong and solid, and
others, to speak freely, too metaphysical, and of little strength,
especially as they are obscure, as easily denied, and as hard to
be proved, as that very conclusion in support of which they are
adduced.

They who reason from the immaterial nature of the soul, and
from its being infused into the body, as also from its method of
operation, which is confined to none, of the bodily organs, may
easily prevail with those who believe these principles, to admit
the truth of the conclusion they draw from them : but if they meet
with any who obstinately deny the premises, or even doubt the
truth of them, it will be a matter of difficulty to support such
hypothesis with clear and conclusive arguments. If the soul of
man was well acquainted with itself, and fully understood its own
nature, if it could investigate the nature of its union with the body,
and the method of its operation therein, we doubt not but from
thence it might draw these and other such arguments of its im-
mortality ; but since, shut up in the prison of a dark body, it is
so little known, and so incomprehensible to itself, and since, in
so great obscurity, it can scarce, if at all, discover the least of its
own features and complexion, it would be a very difficult matter
for it to say much concerning its internal nature, or nicely deter-
mine the methods of its operation. But it would be surprising if
any one should deny that the very operations it performs, especially
those of the more noble and exalted sort, are strong marks and
conspicuous characters of its excellence and immortality.

Nothing is more evident than that, besides life, and sense, and
animal spirits, which he has in common with the brutes, there is
in man something more exalted, more pure, and that more nearly
approaches to Divinity. God has given to the former a sensitive
soul, but to us a mind also ; and, to speak distinctly, that spirit
which is peculiar to man, and whereby he is raised above all other
animals, ought to be called mind rather than soul. Be this as it

5 1 8 HA LF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTOST.

may, it is hardly possible to say how vastly the human mind excels
the other with regard to its wonderful powers, and, next to them,
with respect to its works, devices, and inventions. For it performs
such great and wonderful things, that the brutes, even those of
the greatest sagacity, can neither imitate, nor at all understand,
much less invent. Nay, man, though he is much less in bulk, and
inferior in strength to the greatest part of them, yet, as lord and
king of them all, he can, by surprising means, bend and apply the
strength and industry of all the other creatures, the virtues of all
herbs and plants, and, in a word, all the parts and powers of this
visible world, to the convenience and accommodation of his own
life. He also builds cities, erects commonwealths, makes laws, con-
ducts armies, fits out fleets, measures not only the earth, but the
heavens also, and investigates the motions of the stars. He fore-
tells eclipses many years before they happen ; and, with very little
difficulty, sends his thoughts to a great distance, bids them visit
the remotest cities and countries, mount above the sun and the
stars, and even the heavens themselves.

But all these things are inconsiderable, and contribute but little
to our present purpose, in respect of that one incomparable dignity
that results to the human mind from its being capable of religion,
and having indelible characters thereof naturally stamped upon it.
It acknowledges a God, and worships Him • it builds temples to
His honour; it celebrates His never enough exalted majesty with
sacrifices, prayers, and praises ; depends upon His bounty ; im-
plores His aid ; and so carries on a constant correspondence with
heaven : and, which is a very strong proof of its being originally
from heaven, it hopes at last to return to it. And truly, in my
judgment this previous impression and hope of immortality and
these earnest desires after it, are a very strong evidence of that
immortality. These impressions, though in most men they lie
overpowered, and almost quite extinguished by the weight of their
bodies, and an extravagant love to present enjoyments ; yet, now
and then, in time of adversity, break forth and exert themselves,
especially under the pressure of severe distempers, and at the ap-
proaches of death. But those whose minds are purified, and their

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.] ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 519

thoughts habituated to Divine things, with what constant and
ardent wishes do they breathe after that blessed immortality?
How often do their souls complain within them that they have
dwelt so long in these earthly tabernacles? Like exiles, they
earnestly wish, make interest, and struggle hard, to regain their
native country. Moreover, does not that noble neglect of the
body and its senses, and that contempt of all the pleasures of the
flesh, which these heavenly souls have attained, evidently show
that, in a short time, they will be taken from hence, and that the
body and soul are of a very different and almost contrary nature
to one another ; that, therefore, the duration of the one depends
not upon the other, but is quite of another kind ; and that the
soul, set at liberty from the body, is not only exempted from death,
but, in some sense, then begins to live, and then first sees light ?
Had we not this hope to support us, what ground should we have
to lament our first nativity, which placed us in a life so short, so
destitute of good, and so crowded with miseries ; a life which we
pass entirely in grasping phantoms of felicity, and suffering real
calamities ! So that, if there were not, beyond this, a life and
happiness that more truly deserves these names, who can help
seeing that, of all creatures, man would be the most miserable,
and, of all men, at the best, the most unhappy ?

For, although every wise man looks upon the belief of the
immortality of the soul as one of the great and principal sup-
ports of religion, there may possibly be some rare, exalted, and
truly divine minds, who would choose the pure and noble path
of virtue for its own sake, would constantly walk in it, and, out of
love to it, would not decline the severest hardships, if they should
happen to be exposed to them on its own account. Yet it can-
not be denied that the common sort of Christians, though they
are really and at heart sound believers and true Christians, fall
very far short of this attainment, and would scarcely, if at all, em-
brace virtue and religion, if you take away the rewards ; which I
think the Apostle Paul hints at in this expression, If in this life
only we have hope, we are of all men the most miserable, (i Cor.
xv. 19.) The apostle, indeed, does not intend these words as a

520 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.

direct proof of the immortality of the soul in a separate state,
but an argument to prove the resurrection of the body ; which is
a doctrine near akin, and closely connected with the former.
For that great restoration is added as an instance of the super-
abundance and immensity of the Divine goodness, whose pleasure
it is, that not only the better and more divine part of man,
which, upon its return to its original Source, is, without the
body, capable of enjoying a perfectly happy and eternal life,
should have a glorious immortality, but also that this earthly
tabernacle, as being the faithful attendant and constant com-
panion of the soul through all its toils and labours in this world,
be also admitted to a share and participation of its heavenly and
eternal felicity ; that so, according to our Lord's expression,
every faithful soul may have returned into his bosom, good
measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over, (Luke
vi.38.) '

Let our belief of this immortality be founded entirely on divine
revelation : and then, like a city fortified with a rampart of earth
drawn round it, let it be outwardly guarded and defended by
reason, which, in this case, suggests arguments as strong and con-
vincing as the subject will admit of. If any one, in the present
case, promises demonstration, his undertaking is certainly too
much ; if he desires or accepts it from another, he requires too
much. There are, indeed, very few demonstrations in philosophy,
if you except mathematical sciences, that can be truly and strictly
so called ; and, if we inquire narrowly into the matter, perhaps
we shall find none at all ; nay, if even the mathematical demon-
strations are examined by the strict rules and ideas of Aristotle,
the greatest part of them will be found imperfect and defective.
The saying of that philosopher is, therefore, wise and applicable
to many cases : " Demonstrations are not to be expected in all
cases, but so far as the subject will admit of them." But if we
were well acquainted with the nature and essence of the soul, or
even its precise method of operation on the body, it is highly
probable we could draw from thence evident and undeniable
demonstrations of that immortality which we are now asserting ;

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.] ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 521

whereas, so long as the mind of man is so little acquainted with
its own nature, we must not expect any such.

But that unquenchable thirst of the soul, which we have already
mentioned, is a strong proof of its divine nature ; a thirst not to
be allayed with the impure and turbid waters of any earthly good,
or of all worldly enjoyments taken together. It thirsts after the
never-failing fountain of good, according to that of the Psalmist,
As the hart panteth after the water-brooks. It thirsts after a good,
invisible, immaterial, and immortal, to the enjoyment whereof the
ministry of a body is so far from being absolutely necessary, that
it feels itself shut up and confined by that to which it is now
united, as by a partition wall, and groans under the pressure of
it. And those souls that are quite insensible of this thirst, are
certainly buried in the body as in the carcass of an impure hog ;
nor have they so entirely divested themselves of this appetite we
have mentioned, nor can they possibly so divest themselves of it,
as not to feel it severely to their great misery, sooner or later,
either when they awake out of their lethargy within the body, or
when they are obliged to leave it. To conclude : Nobody, I
believe, will deny that we are to form our judgment of the true
nature of the human mind, not from the sloth and stupidity of
the most degenerate and vilest of men, but from the sentiments
and fervent desires of the best and wisest of the species.

These sentiments concerning the immortality of the soul in its
future existence not only include no impossibility or absurdity in
them, but are also every way agreeable to sound reason, wisdom
and virtue, to the divine economy, and the natural wishes and
desires of men ; wherefore most nations have, with the greatest
reason, universally adopted them, and the wisest in all countries
and in all ages have cheerfully embraced them.

522 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WORDSWORTH.

268.—

WORDSWORTH.

IT needs scarcely be said, that an epitaph presupposes a
monument, upon which it is said to* be engraven. Almost all
nations have wished that certain external signs should point out
the places where their dead are interred. Among savage tribes
unacquainted with letters, this has mostly been done by rude
stones placed near the graves, or by mounds of earth raised over
them. This custom proceeded obviously from a twofold desire j
first, to guard the remains of the deceased from irreverent ap-
proach, or from savage violation : and, secondly, to preserve their
memory. "Never any," says Camden, "neglected burial, but
some savage nations: as the Bactrians, which cast their dead. to
the dogs ; some varlet philosophers, as Diogenes, who desired tq
be devoured of fishes ; some dissolute courtiers, as Maecenas, who
was wont to say —

" ' Non ttimulum euro; sepelit Nattira tftKcfat,* " ,

" I 'm careless of a grave : — Nature her dead will save."

As soon as nations had learned the use of letters, epitaphs were
inscribed upon these monuments, in order that their intention
might be more surely and adequately fulfilled. I have derived
monuments and epitaphs from two sources of feeling : but these
do, in fact, resolve themselves into one. " The invention of epi-
taphs," Weever, in his discourse of funeral monuments, says
rightly, "proceeded from the presage or forefeeling of immortality,
implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to the scholars of
Linus, the Theban poet, who flourished about the year of the
world two thousand seven hundred ; who first bewailed this Linus
their master, when he was slain, in doleful verses, then called of
him Elina, afterwards Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at
burials, after engraved upon the sepulchres."

And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of immor-
tality in the human soul, man could never have had awakened in
him the desire to live in the remembrance of his fellows : mere love,

WORDSWORTH.] EPITA PHS. 523

or the yearning of kind towards kind, could not have produced it.
The dog or horse perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side
of his companions, and is incapable of anticipating the sorrow
with which his surrounding associates shall bemoan his death or
pine for his loss ; he cannot preconceive this regret, he can form
no thought of it ; and, therefore, cannot possibly have a desire to
leave such a regret or remembrance behind him. Add to the
principle of love, which exists in the inferior animals, the faculty
of reason which exists in man alone ; will the conjunction of these
account for the desire? Doubtless it is a necessary consequence
of this conjunction : yet not. I think, as a direct result, but only
to be come at through an intermediate thought, viz., that of an
intimation or assurance within us, that some part of our nature is
imperishable. At least the precedence, in order of birth, of one
feeling to the other, is unquestionable. If we look back upon the
days of childhood, we shall find that the time is not in remem-
brance when, with respect to our own individual being, the mind
was without this assurance ; whereas, the wish to be remembered
by our friends or kindred, after death, or even in absence, is, as
we shall discover, a sensation that does not form itself till the
social feelings have been developed, and the reason has connected
itself with a wide range of objects. Forlorn, and cut off from
communication with the best part of its nature, must that man be,
who should derive the sense of immortality, as it exists in the mind
of a child, from the same unthinking gaiety or liveliness of animal
spirits with which the lamb in the meadow, or any other irrational
creature, is endowed; who should ascribe it, in short, to blank ignor-
ance in the child, to an inability, arising from the imperfect state of
his faculties, to come, in any point of his being, into contact with a
notion of death ; or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had
been instilled into him f Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of
nature, though he may have forgotten his former self, ever noticed
the early, obstinate, and unappeasable inquisitiveness of children
upon the subject of origination 1 This single fact proves outwardly
the monstrousness of those suppositions ; for, if we had no direct
external testimony that the minds of very young children meditate

524 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WORDSWORTH.

feelingly upon death and immortality, these inquiries, which we all
know they are perpetually making concerning the whence, do neces-
sarily include correspondent habits of interrogation concerning the
whither. Origin and tendency are notions inseparably co-relative.
Never did a child stand by the side of a running stream, ponder-
ing within himself what power was the feeder of the perpetual
current, from what never-wearied sources the body of water was
supplied, but he must have been inevitably propelled to follow
this question by another : " Towards what abyss is it in progress ?
what receptacle can contain the mighty influx1?" And the spirit
of the answer must have been, though the word might be sea or
ocean, accompanied, perhaps, with an image gathered from a
map, or from the real object in nature — these might have been
the letter^ but the spirit of the answer must have been as inevitably
— a receptacle without bounds or dimensions ; — nothing less than
infinity. We may, then, be justified in asserting that the sense of
immortality, if not a co-existent and twin-birth with reason, is
among the earliest ot her offspring : and we may further assert,
that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, the
human affections are gradually formed and opened out. This is
not the place to enter into the recesses of these investigations ;
but the subject requires me here to make a plain avowal, that,
for my own part, it is to me inconceivable, that the sympathies
of love towards each other, which grow with our growth, could
ever attain any new strength, or even preserve the old, after we
have received from the outward senses the impression of death,
and were in the habit of having that impression daily renewed,
had its accompanying feeling brought home to ourselves and to
those we love, if the same were not counteracted by those com-
munications with our internal being, which are anterior to all
these experiences, and with which revelation coincides, and has
through that coincidence alone (for otherwise it could not possess
it) a power to affect us. I confess, with me the conviction is
absolute, that, if the impression and sense of death were not thus
counterbalanced, such a hollowness would pervade the whole
system of things, such a want of correspondence and consistency,

WORDSWORTH.] EPITAPHS. 525

a disproportion so astounding betwixt means and ends, that there
could be no repose, no joy. Were we to grow up unfostered by
this genial warmth, a frost would chill the spirit, so penetrating
and powerful, that there could be no motions of the life of love ;
and infinitely less could we have any wish to be remembered
after we had passed away from a world in which each man had
moved about like a shadow. If, then, in a creature endowed
with the faculties of foresight and reason, the social affections
could not have unfolded themselves un countenanced by the faith
that man is an immortal being; and if, consequently, neither
could the individual dying have had a desire to survive in the
remembrance of his fellows, nor on their side could they have felt
a wish to preserve for future times vestiges of the departed ; it
follows, as a final inference, that without the belief in immortality,
wherein these several desires originate, neither monuments nor
epitaphs, in affectionate or laudatory commemoration of the
deceased, could have existed in the world.

Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange country,
found the corpse of an unknown person lying by the sea-side ;
he buried it, and was honoured throughout Greece for the piety
of that act Another ancient philosopher, chancing to fix his
eyes upon a dead body, regarded the same with slight, if not with
contempt ; saying, " See the shell of a flown bird ! " But it is
not to be supposed that the moral and tender-hearted Simonides
was incapable of the lofty movements of thought, to which that
other sage gave way at the moment while his soul was intent only
upon the indestructible being, nor, on the other hand, that he, in
whose sight a lifeless human body was of no more value than the
worthless shell from which the living fowl had departed, would
not, in a different mood of mind, have been affected by those
earthly considerations which had incited the philosophic poet to
the performance of that pious duty. And with regard to this
latter we may be assured that, if he had been destitute of the
capability of communing with the more exalted thoughts that
appertain to human nature, he would have cared no more for the
corpse of the stranger than for the dead body of a seal or porpoise

526 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WORDSWOI

which might have been cast up by the waves. We respect th<
corporeal frame of man, not merely because it is the habitation
a rational, but of an immortal soul. Each of these sages was n
sympathy with the best feelings of our nature ; feelings, whi<
though they seem opposite to each other, have another and
finer connexion than that of contrast. It is a connexion forme
through the subtle progress by which, both in the natural and th<
moral world, qualities pass insensibly into their contraries, an<
things revolve upon each other. As, in sailing upon the orb
this planet, a voyage towards the regions where the sun sets, coi
ducts gradually to the quarter where we have been accustomt
to behold it come forth at its rising ; and, in like manner,
voyage towards the east, the birth-place in our imagination of th(
morning, leads finally to the quarter where the sun is last seei
when he departs from our eyes ; so the contemplative soul, travel
ling in the direction of mortality, advances to the country of eve
lasting life : and, in like manner, may she continue to exploi
those cheerful tracts, till she is brought back for her advantj
and benefit, to the land of transitory things — of sorrow and
tears.

Recurring to the twofold desire of guarding the remains of th(
deceased and preserving their memory, it may be said that
sepulchral monument is a tribute to a man as a human being
and that an epitaph (in the ordinary meaning attached to th<
word) includes this general feeling and something more ; and
a record to preserve the memory of the dead, as a tribute due
his individual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts
the survivors, and for the common benefit of the living : whicl
record is to be accomplished, not in a general manner, but, whei
it can, in close connexion with the bodily remains of the deceased,
and these, it may be added, among the modern nations of Eui
are deposited within, or contiguous to, their places of worshij
In ancient times, as is well known, it was the custom to bury th<
dead beyond the walls of towns and cities ; and among th<
Greeks and Romans they were frequently interred by the way-
side.

WORDSWORTH.] EPITAPHS. 527

I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the reader to in-
dulge with me in contemplation of the advantages which must
have attended such a practice. We might ruminate upon the
beauty which the monuments, thus placed, must have borrowed
from the surrounding images of nature — from the trees, the wild
flowers, from a stream running perhaps within sight or hearing,
from the beaten road stretching its weary length hard by. Many
tender similitudes must these objects have presented to the mind
of the traveller leaning upon one of the tombs, or reposing in the
coolness of its shade, whether he had halted from weariness or in
compliance with the invitation, " Pause, Traveller ! " so often found
upon the monuments. And to its epitaph also must have been
supplied strong appeals to visible appearances or immediate im-
pressions, lively and affecting analogies of life as a journey — death
as a sleep overcoming the tired wayfarer — of misfortune as a storm
that falls suddenly upon him — of beauty as a flower that passeth
away, or of innocent pleasure as one that may be gathered — of
virtue that standeth firm as a rock against the beating waves — of
hope " undermined insensibly like the poplar by the side of the river
that fed it," or blasted in a moment like a pine-tree by the stroke
of lightning on the mountain-top — of admonitions and heart-stirring
remembrances, like a refreshing breeze that comes without warn-
ing, or the taste of the waters of an unexpected fountain. These
and similar suggestions must have given, formerly, to the language
of the senseless stone a voice enforced and endeared by the
benignity of that nature with which it was in unison. We, in
modern times, have lost much of these advantages ; and they are
but in a small degree counterbalanced, to the inhabitants of large
towns and cities, by the custom of depositing the dead within or
contiguous to their places of worship, however splendid or impos-
ing may be the appearance of those edifices, or however interest-
ing or salutary the recollections associated with them. Even were
it not true that tombs lose their monitory value when thus obtruded
upon the notice of men occupied with the cares of the world, and
too often sullied and defiled by those cares, yet still, when death is
in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the want of the

528 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WORDSWORTH.

soothing influences of nature, and for the absence of those types
of renovation and decay which the fields and woods offer to the
notice of a serious and contemplative mind. To feel the force of
this sentiment, let a man only compare in imagination the un-
sightly manner in which our monuments are crowded together in
the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost grassless churchyard of a
large town, with the still seclusion of a Turkish cemetery, in some
remote place, and yet further sanctified by the grove of cypress in
which it is embosomed.

A village churchyard, lying as it does in the lap of nature, may,
indeed be most favourably contrasted with that of a town of
crowded population ; and sepulture therein combines many of
the best tendencies which belong to the mode practised by the
ancients, with others peculiar to itself. The sensations of pious
cheerfulness which attend the celebration of the Sabbath-day in
rural places are profitably chastised by the sight of the graves of
kindred and friends, gathered together in that general home to-
wards which the thoughtful yet happy spectators themselves are
journeying. Hence a parish church in the stillness of the country
is a visible centre of a community of the living and the dead ; a
point to which are habitually referred the nearest concerns of
both.

As, then, both in cities and in villages, the dead are deposited
in close connexion with our places of worship, with us the com-
position of an epitaph naturally turns, still more than among the
nations of antiquity, upon the most serious and solemn affections
of the human mind • upon departed worth — upon personal or
social sorrow and admiration — upon religion, individual and social
— upon time, and upon eternity. Accordingly it suffices, in ordi-
nary cases, to secure a composition of this kind from censure, that
it contains nothing that shall shock or be inconsistent with this
spirit. But to entitle an epitaph to praise more than this is neces-
sary. It ought to contain some thought or feeling belonging to
the mortal or immortal part of our nature touchingly expressed ;
and if that be done, however general or even trite the sentiment

WORDSWORTH.] EPITAPHS. 529

may be, every man of pure mind will read the words with sensa-
tions of pleasure and gratitude. A husband bewails a wife ; a
parent breathes a sigh of disappointed hope over a lost child j a
son utters a sentiment of filial reverence over a departed father or
mother ; a friend perhaps inscribes an encomium recording the
companionable qualities or the solid virtues of the tenant of the
grave, whose departure has left a sadness upon his memory. This,
and a pious admonition to the living, and a humble expression of
Christian confidence in immortality, is the language of a thousand
churchyards ; and it does not often happen that anything in a
greater degree discriminate or appropriate to the dead or to the
living is to be found in them.

The first requisite in an epitaph is that it should speak, in a
tone which shall sink into the heart, the general language of
humanity as connected with the subject of death — the source from
which an epitaph proceeds ; of death and of life. To be born and
to die are the two points in which all men feel themselves to be
in absolute coincidence. This general language may be uttered
so strikingly as to entitle an epitaph to high praise : yet it cannot
lay claim to the highest unless other excellences be superadded.
Passing through all intermediate steps, we will attempt to deter-
mine at once what these excellences are, and wherein consists
the perfection of this species of composition. It will be found to
lie in a due proportion of the common or universal feeling of
humanity to sensations excited by a distinct and clear conception
conveyed to the reader's mind of the individual whose death is
deplored and whose memory is to be preserved ; at least of his
character as, after death, it appeared to those who loved him and
lament his loss. The general sympathy ought to be quickened,
provoked, and diversified by particular thoughts, actions, images
— circumstances of age, occupation, manner of life, prosperity
which the deceased had known, or adversity to which he had been
subject ; and these ought to be bound together and solemnised
into one harmony by the general sympathy. The two powers
should temper, restrain, and exalt each other. The reader ought

VOL. III. 2 L

ii M.I- i: i ii i in r.i . i \UTHO K& fWoiM*/. .

I*, i.now who and what th'- man WU whom h<- i'. failed upon to
tlmil: of with Interest A dr.lma 'onrcption should

(implicitly where it can, rathei than <-<\.\\< \\\y) of the indiv
lamented. I'.ui tl.- omist who

dissectfl tli'- ml' mat ff.ini'- of lli» mind ; h<- i , : I :\\\\i-r

who <•:<<•< nl'". :i poihaii :<: and in enlif 1 1 ;i h'jililli! y hi .

(\i linr;ilion we inn .1 rrii)ciiil;cr, i'i \,<-il<tnn<:<\ \>y \\K- llde of fhr

e ; aiifl, wli it r. more, the grave of on<- v/i.oin he lovea and

no— nor ought io b<- '.'-en, oih'-iwr.r ih.-in as a tree through a
i'-i.<ic:r haze or ;i luminous nift, thtt ipiritualifei and beautifi

ih it ill-, .iw.iy indeed, but only to the end that the parts wlm h
arc not abstracted may appear more rli;Miiiir»i -,n><\ lovly, m.-iy m.

preil and afferl •!:'• more. Sh;ill we :,,iy, Ih'-n, lh.it this i. not
tin III, nol ;i f.iilhful mi i; l.h;il ;IM oi'lin;<ly the j,ui|,f, ,<•', »,f

commemoration cannot be answered 1 ft. A iiuih, ;m/i of the

in:'i,. ,t f,rdei ' f(;r, ihoii-li fioni.iir;.:, things are not appar< nl nrhi( h

(lid exist, yrl, the ol>je< lool:rd ;il lhiou;'h ll.r. ni'-<liiini,

:ili'l |.lo|. . whir |, |,

had 1>C(Mi only impcifer.lly 01 ni.- ii i. ill.- inilh

hallowed |>y love lh«- joint of! ipring of (he v/oilh ol the d'-;id .ind

ii.r- .-iii. < iion . (,i the living 1 This may c.v.iiy \»- broughl to the
test Let one whose eyes have been sharpened !>>•
hostility to di :,( over wh mi:;:; m t.Iic character of a good

nun he;ir lh«- lidin/'.:: "' hi. de;i.lh, ;md wh.il :i. i haii/M: i-, w/oiijdit
in .1 nionient,! I'.nmity meltH awuy ; and ,r. ii disap]

tlineH, dilpTOpoilion, and •! h ; and llnou;di ||M-

n, llucnCC Of Commiseration a harmony '. -d l.'Miily :.iif ( i-rd-..

; HUch a 111. 111 lo lh«- loml,,lr>ne on vvl.i' h :.hall he invrihcd

anepitaph on hi, adversary, COIiij.o ..-d in Hi-- .pint which w«- have

recommended. Would he linn fiom il a-, horn an idl<- laleV No

III'- Ihoiijdilfnl lool., Ih.- :,i|di, and pethaps the involuntary tear,

would t.-iiiy ih..i it had a sane, a generous, and good meaning j
and that on the writer's mind had remained an nnj.i. aon win* h

/,.-,, (/'A <U. < IIAKI 1 '• n

i true .d'.iM'i <>i iif character of the deceaied; HMI in-.

, were rrliietnl)en 'I in lln- -.11111. In ily in wln< h lln y

nii-'iii to be remembered. Tin- rompnsilion ;iiid «|u.iliiy «.i ih<

mind n| .1 virtllOUS in. ill, < oill(-|llpl.'ll(Ml I'Y III' Nidi "I lli« |

wli< i<- lii , body If mouldi rin^, oiij'.hl I" ;i|)|M-;ir, .md I.-- l< li, ..-.

llill,;- niMlvv.iy Ix'lwccil wll.i! - H c.Hlll \\.dl .in-; llliOlll

willi In', living li.ulli. '., .mil wli.il IK- in.iy l.c |.i< MIIIK d !«> |.«- .r, .1

:.j.iiil in IM

aflcr t|rc

|'l HI foil i (MJ .. :i fuH'-i ;i« coiinl, |-nl.

n. I'/'',',, ffOBJ li I rliilirn t .,!)' :;•-, ( .,.,,!, ,, ;. , ,|

1 i, iri N blni H if iii." .'i linly •/• , ,

;ni'l il . Jivln,' , . r, -.'.in- V/I...I < II..I.M I. M.IC .,) '

A/I'-)

ill'-

was so abHolutcly lont, as to be beyond

w;..y ol :,;ivin;; my

532 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHARLES II.

self; and the first thought that came into my head was, that, If I
could possibly, I would get to London as soon, if not sooner,
than the news of our defeat could get thither : and it being near
dark, I talked with some, especially with my Lord Rochester, who
was then Wilmot, about their opinions, which would be the best
way for me to escape, it being impossible, as I thought, to get
back into Scotland. I found them mightily distracted, and their
opinions different, of the possibility of getting to Scotland, but not
one agreeing with mine for going to London, saving my Lord
Wilmot ; and the truth is, I did not impart my design of going
to London to any but my Lord Wilmot. But we had such a
number of beaten men with us of the horse, that I strove, as soon
as ever it was dark, to get from them • and though I could not
get them to stand by me against the enemy, I could not get rid
of them now I had a mind to it.

So we, that is, my Lord Duke of Buckingham, Lauderdale,
Derby, Wilmot, Tom Blague, Duke Darcey, and several others of
my servants, went along northward towards Scotland ; and at last
we got about sixty that were gentlemen and officers, and slipped
away out of the high road that goes to Lancashire, and kept on
the right hand, letting all the beaten men go along the great road ;
and ourselves not knowing very well which way to go, for it was
then too late for us to get to London on horseback, riding
directly for it, nor could we do it, because there were yet many
people of quality with us that I could not get rid of.

So we rode through a town short of Wolverhampton, betwixt
that and Worcester, and went through, there lying a troop of the
enemies there that night. We rode very quietly through the town,
they having nobody to watch, nor they suspecting us no more
than we did them, which I learned afterwards from a country-
fellow.

We went that night about twenty miles, to a place called White
Lady's, hard by Tong Castle, by the advice of Mr Giffard, where
we stopped, and got some little refreshment of bread and cheese,
such as we could get, it being just beginning to be day. This
White Lady's was a private house, that Mr Giffard, who was a

CHARLES II.] ESCAPE OF CHARLES II. 533

Staffordshire man, had told me belonged to honest people that
lived thereabouts.

And just as we came thither, there came in a country-fellow,
that told us there were three thousand of our horse just hard by
Tong Castle, upon the heath, all in disorder, under David Leslie,
and some other of the general officers ; upon which there were
some of the people of quality that were with me who were very
earnest that I should go to him, and endeavour to go into Scot-
land, which I thought was absolutely impossible, knowing very
well that the country would all rise upon us, and that men who
had deserted me when they were in good order, would never
stand to me when they had been beaten.

This made me take the resolution of putting myself into a dis-
guise. And endeavouring to get a-foot to London, in a country-
fellow's habit, with a pair of ordinary gray-cloth breeches, a
leathern doublet, and a green jerkin, which I took in the house
of White Lady's. I also cut my hair very short, and flung my
clothes into a privy-house, that nobody might see that anybody
had been stripping themselves. I acquainting none with my re-
solution of going to London but my Lord Wilmot, they all desir-
ing me not to acquaint them with what I intended to do, because
they knew not what they might be forced to confess ; on which
consideration, they, with one voice, begged of me not to tell
them what I intended to do.

So all the persons of quality and officers who were with me,
(except my Lord Wilmot, with whom a place was agreed upon
for our meeting at London, if we escaped, and who endeavoured
to go on horseback, in regard, as I think, of his being too big to
go on foot,) were resolved to go and join with the three thousand
disordered horse, thinking to get away with them to Scotland.
But, as I did before believe, they were not marched six miles,
after they got to them, but they were all routed by a single troop
of horse, which shows that my opinion was not wrong in not
sticking to men who had run away.

As soon as I was disguised, I took with me a country-fellow,
whose name was Richard Penderell, whom Mr Giffard had under-

534 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS [CHARLES IT.

taken to answer for to be an honest man. He was a Roman
Catholic, and I chose to trust them, because I knew they had
hiding-holes for priests that I thought I might make use of in
case of need.

I was no sooner gone (being the next morning after the battle,
and then broad day) out of the house with this country-fellow,
but, being in a great wood, I sat myself at the edge of the wood,
near the highway that was there, the better to see who came
after us, and whether they made any search after the runaways,
and I immediately saw a troop of horse coming by, which I con-
ceived to be the same troop that beat our three thousand horse ;
but it did not look like a troop of the army's, but of the militia,
for the fellow before it did not look at all like a soldier.

In this wood I stayed all day, without meat or drink ; and by
great good fortune it rained all the time, which hindered them,
as I believe, from coming into the wood to search for men that
might be fled thither. And one thing is remarkable enough, that
those with whom I have since spoken, of them that joined with
the horse upon the heath, did say, that it rained little or nothing
with them all the day, but only in the wood where I was — this
contributing to my safety.

As I was in the wood, I talked with the fellow about getting
towards London, and asked him many questions about what
gentlemen he knew. I did not find he knew any man of quality
in the way towards London. And the truth is my mind changed
as I lay in the wood, and I resolved of another way of making
my escape ; which was, to get over the Severn into Wales, and so
to get either to Swansea or some other of the sea-towns that I
knew had commerce with France, to the end I might get over
that way, as being a way that I thought none would suspect my
taking; besides that, I remembered several honest gentlemen
that were of my acquaintance in Wales.

So that night as soon as it was dark, Richard Penderell and I
took our journey on foot towards the Severn, intending to pass over
a ferry, halfway between Bridgenorth and Shrewsbury. But as we
were going in the night we came up by a mill, where I heard some

CHARLES II.] ESCAPE OF CHARLES II. 535

people talking, (memorandum, that I had got some bread and cheese
the night before at one of the Pendereil's houses, I not going in,)
and, as we conceived, it was about twelve or one o'clock at night,
and the country-fellow desired me not to answer if anybody should
ask me any questions, because I had not the accent of the country.

Just as we came to the mill, we could see the miller, as I
believed, sitting at the mill-door, he being in white clothes, it
being a very dark night. He called out, "Who goes there1?"
Upon which Richard Penderell answered, " Neighbours going
home," or some such-like words. Whereupon the miller cried
out, " If you be neighbours, stand, or I will knock you down."
Upon which, we believing there was company in the house, the
fellow bade me follow him close ; and he ran to a gate that
went up a dirty lane, up a hill, and opening the gate, the miller
cried out, " Rogues, rogues ! " And thereupon some men came
out of the mill after us, which I believed were soldiers. So we
fell a running both of us, up the lane, as long as we could run,
it being very deep and very dirty, till at last I bade him leap
over a hedge, and lie still to hear if anybody followed us ; which
we did, and continued lying down upon the ground about half
an hour, when, hearing nobody come, we continued our way on
to the village upon the Severn, where the fellow told me there
was an honest gentleman, one Mr Woolfe, that lived in that
town, where I might be with great safety ; for that he had hiding-
holes for priests. But I would not go in till I knew a little of his
mind, whether he would receive so dangerous a guest as me :
and therefore stayed in a field, under a hedge, by a great tree,
commanding him not to say it was I, but only to ask Mr Woolfe
whether he would receive an English gentleman, a person of
quality, to hide him the next day, till we could travel again by
night — for I durst not go but by night.

Mr Woolfe, when the country-fellow told him that it was one
that had escaped from the battle of Worcester, said, that for his
part, it was so dangerous a thing to harbour anybody that was
known, that he would not venture his neck for any man, unless it
were the king himself. Upon which, Richard Penderell very in-

536 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHARLES II.

discreetly, and without my leave, told him that it was I. Upon
which Mr Woolfe replied, that he should be very ready to venture
all he had in the world to secure me. Upon which Richard
Penderell came and told me what he l^d done. At which I was
a little troubled ; but then there was no remedy, the day being
just coming on, and I must either venture that or run some
greater danger.

So I came into the house a backway, where I found Mr
Woolfe, an old gentleman, who told me that he was very sorry to
see me there, because there were two companies of the militia foot
at that time in arms in the town, and kept a guard at the ferry,
to examine everybody that came that way, in expectation of
catching some that might be making their escape that way ; and
that he durst not put me into any of the hiding-holes of his house,
because they had been discovered, and consequently, if any
search should be made, they would certainly repair to these holes,
and that therefore I had no other way of security but to go into
his barn, and there lie behind his corn and hay. So after he had
given us some cold meat that was ready, we, without making any
bustle in the house, went and lay in the barn all the next day ;
when towards evening, his son, who had been prisoner at Shrews-
bury, an honest man, was released, and came home to his father's
house. And as soon as ever it began to be a little darkish, Mr
Woolfe and his son brought us meat into the barn ; and then we
discoursed with them whether we might safely get over the Severn
into Wales, which they advised me by no means to adventure
upon, because of the strict guards that were kept all along the
Severn, where any passage could be found, for preventing any-
body's escape that way into Wales.

Upon this I took the resolution of going that night the very
same way back again to Penderell's house, where I knew I should
hear some news what was become of my Lord Wilmot, and re-
solved again upon going for London.

So we set out as soon as it was dark ; but we came by the
mill again, we had no mind to be questioned a second time there,
and therefore asking Richard Penderell whether he could swim

CHARLES II.] ESCAPE OF CHARLES II. 537

or no, and how deep the river was, he told me it was a scurvy
river, not easy to be passed in all places, and that he could not
swim. So I told him that the river being but a little one, I
would undertake to help him over. Upon which we went over
some closes by the river side, and I entering the river first, to see
whether I could myself go over, who knew how to swim, found
it was but a little above my middle, and thereupon, taking Richard
Penderell by the hand, helped him over.

Which being done, we went on our way to one of Penderell's
brothers, (his house being not far from White Lady's,) who had
been guide to my Lord Wilmot, and we believed might by that
time be come back again, for my Lord Wilmot intended to go
to London upon his own horse. When I came to this house I
inquired where my Lord Wilmot was — it being now towards
morning, and having travelled these two nights on foot. Pen-
derell's brother told me that he had conducted him to a very
honest gentleman's house, one Mr Pitchcroft,* not far from
Wolverhampton, a Roman Catholic. I asked him what news.
He told me that there was one Major Careless in the house, that
was that countryman, whom I knowing, he having been a major
in our army, and made his escape thither, a Roman Catholic also,
I sent for him into the room where I was, and consulting with
him what we should do the next day. He told me that it would
be very dangerous for me either to stay in that house, or to go
into the wood, — there being a great wood hard by Boscobel; that
he knew but one way how to pass the next day, and that was, to
get up into a great oak, in a pretty plain place, where we might
see round about us ; for the enemy would certainly search at the
wood for people that had made their escape. Of which proposi-
tion of his I approving, we (that is to say, Careless and I) went,
and carried up some victuals for the whole day — viz., bread,
cheese, small beer, and nothing else, and got up into a great oak,
that had been lopped some three or four years before, and being

* Charles mistook the name, which was Whitgreave. He was thinking of
the field called Pitchcroft, near Worcester, where his army was encamped the
night before the memorable battle.

538 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SPENSER.

grown out again very bushy and thick, could not be seen through,
and here we stayed all the day. I having, in the meantime, sent
Penderell's brother to Mr Pitchcroft's, to know whether my Lord
Wilmot was there or no, and had word brought me by him at
night that my lord was there, that there was a very secure hiding-
hole in Mr Pitchcroft's house, and that he desired me to come
thither to him.

Memorandum : — That while we were in this tree we see soldiers
going up and down in the thicket of the wood, searching for per-
sons escaped, we seeing them now and then peeping out of the
wood.

That night Richard Penderell and I went to Mr Pitchcroft's,
about six or seven miles off, when I found the gentleman of the
house, and an old grandmother of his, and Father Hurlston, who
had then the care, as governor, of bringing up two young gentle-
men, who, I think, were Sir John Preston and his brother, they
being boys.

Here I spoke with my Lord Wilmot, and sent him away to
Colonel Lane's about five or six miles off, to see what means
could be found for my escaping towards London ; who told my
lord, after some consultation thereon, that he had a sister that
had a very fair pretence of going hard by Bristol, to a cousin of
hers, that was married to one Mr Norton, who lived two or three
miles towards Bristol, on Somersetshire side, and she might carry
me thither as her man j and from Bristol I might find shipping to
get out of England.

270.— |a'fegal anb tlje

SPENSER..

THEY saw before them, far as they could view,
Full many people gathered in a crew ;
Whose great assembly they did much admire ;
For never there the like resort they knew.
So towards them they coasted, to inquire
What thing so many nations met did there desire.

SPENSER.] ARTEGAL AND THE GIANT. 539

There they beheld a mighty Giant stand

Upon a rock, and holding forth on high

A huge great pair of balance in his hand,

With which he boasted in his surquedrie*

That all the world he would weigh equally

If ought he had the same to counterpoise :

For want whereof he weighed vanity,

And fill'd his balance full of idle toys :
Yet was admired much of fools, women, and boys.

He said that he would all the earth uptake,

And all the sea, divided each from either ;

So would he of the fire one balance make,

And one of air, without or wind or weather ;

Then would he balance heaven and hell together

And all that did within them all contain ;

Of all whose weight he would not miss a feather :

And look what surplus did of each remain,
He would to his own part restore the same again.

For why, he said, they all unequal were,

And had encroached upon each other's share ;

Like as the sea (which plain he showed there)

Had worn the earth, so did the fire the air ;

So all the rest did others' parts impair :

And so were realms and nations run awry.

All which he undertook for to repair,

In sort as they were formed anciently ;
And all things would reduce into equality.

Therefore the vulgar did about him flock

And cluster thick unto his leasings vain ;

Like foolish flies about an honey-crock ;

In hope by him great benefit to gain,

And uncontrolled freedom to obtain.

All which when Artegal did see and hear,

How he misled the simple people's train,

In 'sdainful wise he drew unto him near,
And thus unto him spake, without regard or fear :

" Thou that presum'st to weigh the world anew,
And all things to an equal to restore,
Instead of right meseems great wrong dost show,
And far above thy forces' pitch to soar :

* Surquedrie — presumption.

54° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SPENSER,

For ere thou limit what is less or more
In everything, thou oughtest first to know
What was the poise of every part of yore :
And look, then, how much it doth overflow
Or fail thereof, so much is more than just to trow.

" For at the first they all created were
In goodly measure by their Maker's might ;
And weighed out in balances so near,
That not a dram was missing of their right :
The earth was in the middle centre pight,
In which it doth immovable abide,
Hemm'd in with waters like a wall in sight,
And they with air, that not a drop can slide :
All which the heavens contain, and in their courses guide.

" Such heavenly justice doth among them reign,
That every one do know their certain bound ;
In which they do these many years remain,
And 'mongst them all no change hath yet been found :
But if thou now shouldst weigh them new in pound,
We are not sure they would so long remain :
All change is perilous, and all chance unsound;
Therefore leave off to weigh them all again,
Till we may be assured they shall their course retain."

"Thou foolish elf," said then the Giant, wroth,

" Seest not how badly all things present be,

And each estate quite out of order goeth ?

And sea itself dost not thou plainly see

Encroach upon the land there under thee ?

And th' earth itself how daily it 's increased

By all that dying to it turned be ?

Were it not good that wrong were then surceast,
And from the most that some were given to the least ?

"Therefore I will throw down these mountains high,

And make them level with the lowly plain ;

These tow'ring rocks, which reach unto the sky,

I will thrust down into the deepest main,

And, as they were, them equalise again.

Tyrants, that make men subject to their law,

I will suppress, that they no more may reign ;

And Lordlings curb that Commons over-awe ;
And all the wealth of rich men to the poor will draw."

ARTEGAL AND THE GIANT. 541

" Of things unseen how canst thou deem aright,"

Then answered the righteous Artegal,

" Sith thou misdeemst so much of things in sight?

What though the sea with waves continual

Do eat the earth, it is no more at all ;

Ne is the earth the less, or loseth aught :

For whatsoever from one place doth fall

Is with the tide unto another brought :
For there is nothing lost, that may be found if sought.

" Likewise the earth is not augmented more

By all that dying unto it do fade ;

For of the earth they formed were of yore :

However gay their blossoms or their blade

Do flourish now, they into dust shall vade.

What wrong then is it if that when they die

They turn to that whereof they first were made ?

All in the power of their great Maker lie :
All creatures must obey the voice of the Most High.

" They live, they die, like as He doth ordain,

Nor ever any asketh reason why.

The hills do not the lowly vales disdain ;

The vales do not the lofty hills envy.

He maketh kings to sit in sovereignty ;

He maketh subjects to their power obey ;

He pulleth down, He setteth up on high ;

He gives to this, from that He takes away :
For all we have is His : what He list do, He may.

" Whatever thing is done, by Him is done,

Ne any may His mighty will withstand ;

Ne any may His sovereign power shun,

Ne loose that He hath bound with steadfast band.

In vain therefore dost thou now take in hand

To call to count, or weigh His works anew,

Whose counsels' depth thou canst not understand j

Since of things subject to thy daily view
Thou dost not know the causes nor the courses due.

" For take thy balance, if thou be so wise,

And weigh the wind that under heaven doth blow ;

Or weigh the light that in the East doth rise ;

Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow.

542 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

But if the weight of these thou canst not show,
Weigh but one word which from thy lips doth fall :
For how canst thou those greater secrets know,
Thou dost not know the least thing of them all ?
Ill can he rule the great, that cannot reach the smalL"

Therewith the Giant much abashed said,

That he of little things made reckoning light ;

Yet the least word that ever could be laid

Within his balance he could weigh aright.

" Which is," said he, " more heavy then in weight,

The right or wrong, the false or else the true ? "

He answered that he would try it straight :

So he the words into his balance threw ;

But straight the winged words out of his balance flew.

Wroth wax'd he then, and said that words were light,
Ne would within his balance well abide :
But he could justly weigh the wrong or right,
" Well then," said Artegal, " let it be tried :
First in one balance set the true aside."
He did so first, and then the first he laid
In th' other scale ; but still it down did slide,
And by no means could in the weight be stay'd :

For by no means the false will with the truth be weigh'd.

'* Now take the right likewise," said Artegal,

" And counterpoise the same with so much wrong."

So first the right he put into one scale ;

And then the Giant strove with puissance strong

To fill the other scale with so much wrong :

But all the wrongs that he therein could lay

Might not it poise ; yet did he labour long,

And swat, and chaf'd, and proved every way :

Yet all the wrongs could not a little right down weigh.

Which when he saw, he greatly grew in rage,
And almost would his balances have broken,
But Artegal him fairly 'gan assuage,
And said, " Be not upon thy balance wroken ;
For they do nought but right or wrong betoken ;
But in the mind the doom of right must be :
And so likewise of words, the which be spoken,
The ear must be the balance, to decree ;

The judge, whether with truth or falsehood they agree.

SPENSER.] ARTEGAL AND THE GIANT. 543

"But set the truth and set the right aside,

For they with wrong or falsehood will not fare,

And put two wrongs together to be tried,

Or else two falses, of each equal share,

And then together do them both compare :

For truth is one, and right is ever one."

So did he ; and then plain it did appear,

Whether of them the greater were attone :
But right sat in the middest of the beam alone.

But he the right from thence did thrust away ;

For it was not the right which he did seek ;

But rather strove extremities to weigh,

Th' one to diminish, th' other for to eke :

For of the mean he greatly did misleek.

Whom when so lewdly minded Talus found,

Approaching nigh unto him cheek by cheek

He shouldered him from off the higher ground,
And down the rock him throwing in the sea him drown'd.

Like as a ship, whom cruel tempest drives

Upon a rock with horrible dismay,

Her shattered ribs in thousand pieces rives,

And spoiling all her gears and goodly ray

Does make herself misfortune's piteous prey.

So down the cliff the wretched Giant tumbled ;

His battered balances in pieces lay,

His timbered bones all broken rudely rumbled :
So was the high aspiring with huge ruin humbled.

That when the people, which had thereabout

Long waited, saw his sudden desolation,

They 'gan to gather in tumultuous rout,

And mutining to stir up civil faction

For certain loss of so great expectation :

For well they hoped to have got great good

And wondrous riches by his innovation :

Therefore resolving to revenge his blood
They rose in arms, and all in battle order stood.

544 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. MARTINEAU.

271.— I fa gil* anir %

H. MARTINEAU.
[FROM EASTERN LIFE, PAST AND PRESENT.]

DIODORUS SICULUS tells us that Antae (supposed by Wilkinson
to be probably the same with Ombte) had charge of the Ethiopian
and Lybian parts of the kingdom of Osiris, while Osiris went
abroad through the earth to benefit it with his gifts. Antae seems
not to have been always in friendship with the house of Osiris ;
and was killed here by Hercules on behalf of Osiris ; but he was
worshipped here, near the spot where the wife and son of Osiris
avenged his death on his murderer, Typho. The temple sacred
to Antae, (or, in the Greek, Antaeus,) parts of which were standing
thirty years ago, was a rather modern affair, having been built
about the time of the destruction of the Colossus of Rhodes.
Ptolemy Philqpater built it j and he was the Egyptian monarch
who sent presents and sympathy to Rhodes on occasion of the
fall of the Colossus. Now, nothing remains of the monuments
but some heaps of stones ; nothing whatever that can be seen
from the river. The traveller can only look upon hamlets of
modern Arabs, and speculate on the probability of vast " treasures
hid in the sand.;'

If I were to have the choice of a fairy gift, it should be like
none of the many things I fixed upon in my childhood, in readi-
ness for such an occasion. It should be for a great winnowing
fan, such as would, without injury to human eyes and lungs, blow
away the sand which buries the monuments of Egypt. What a
scene would be laid open then ! One statue and sarcophagus,
brought from Memphis, was buried one hundred and thirty feet
below the mound surface. Who knows but that the greater part
of old Memphis, and of other glorious cities, lies almost unharmed
under the sand 1 Who can say what armies of sphinxes, what
sentinels of colossi, might start up on the banks of the river, or
come forth from the hill-sides of the interior, when the cloud of
sand had been wafted away1? The ruins which we now go to

H. MARTINEAU.] THE NILE AND THE DESERT. 545

study might then appear occupying only eminences, while below
might be ranges of pylons, miles of colonnade, temples intact,
and gods and goddesses safe in their sanctuaries. What quays
along the Nile, and the banks of forgotten canals ! what terraces,
and flights of wide shallow steps ! What architectural stages
might we not find for a thousand miles along the river, where now
the orange sands lie so smooth and light as to show the track —
the clear foot-print — of every beetle that comes out to bask in
the sun ! But it is better as it is. If we could once blow away
the sand, to discover the temples and palaces, we should next
want to rend the rocks, to lay open the tombs ; and Heaven
knows that this would set us wishing further. It is best as it
is; for the time has not come for the full discovery of the
treasures of Egypt. It is best as it is. The sand is a fine
means of preservation ; and the present inhabitants perpetuate
enough of the names to serve for guidance when the day
for exploration shall come. The minds of scholars are pre-
paring for an intelligent interpretation of what a future age
may find ; and science, chemical and mechanical, will probably
supply such means hereafter as we have not now, for treat-
ing and removing the sand, when its conservative office has
lasted long enough. We are not worthy yet of this great unveil-
ing ; and the inhabitants are not, from their ignorance, trustworthy
as spectators. It is better that the world should wait, if only
care be taken that the memory of no site now known be lost.
True as I feel it to be that we had better wait, I was for ever catch-
ing myself in a speculation, not only on the buried treasures of the
mounds on shore, but on means for managing this obstinate sand.
And yet, vexatious as is its presence in many a daily scene, this
sand has a bright side to its character, like everything else. Be-
sides its great office of preserving unharmed for a future age the
records of the oldest times known to man, the sand of the desert
has, for many thousand years, shared equally with the Nile the
function of determining the character and the destiny of a whole
people, who have again operated powerfully on the characters
and destiny of other nations. Everywhere the minds and fortunes

VOL. III. 2 M

546 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. MARTINEAU

of human races are mainly determined by the characteristics of
the soil on which they are born and reared. In our own small
island, there are, as it were, three tribes of people, whose lives are
much determined still, in spite of all modern facilities for inter-
course, by the circumstance of their being born and reared on the
mineral strip to the west — the pastoral strip in the middle — or
the eastern agricultural portion. The Welsh and Cornwall miners
are as widely different from the Lincolnshire or Kentish husband-
men, and the Leicestershire herdsmen, as Englishmen can be from
Englishmen. Not only their physical training is different ; their
intellectual faculties are differently exercised, and their moral ideas
and habits vary accordingly. So it is in every country where
there is a diversity of geological formation : and nowhere is the
original constitution of the earth so strikingly influential on the
character of its inhabitants as in Egypt. There, everything de-
pends— life itself, and all that it includes — on the state of the un-
intermitting conflict between the Nile and the Desert. The world
has seen many struggles; but no other so pertinacious, so per-
durable, and so sublime as the conflict of these two great powers.
The Nile, ever young because perpetually renewing its youth,
appears to the unexperienced eye to have no chance, with its
stripling force, against the great old Goliath, the Desert, whose
might has never relaxed, from the earliest days till now ; but the
giant has not conquered yet. Now and then he has prevailed for
a season, and the tremblers, whose destiny hung on the event, have
cried out that all was over ; but he has once more been driven back,
and Nilus has risen up again, to do what we see him doing in the
sculptures — bind up his water plants about the throne of Egypt.
These fluctuations of superiority have produced extraordinar)
effects on the people for the time, but these are not the forming
and training influences which I am thinking of now. It is true
that when the Nile gains too great an accession of strength, and
runs in destructively upon the Desert, men are in despair at see-
ing their villages swept away, and that torrents come spouting out
from the sacred tombs in the mountain, as the fearful clouds of
the sky come down to aid the river of the valley. It is true that,

H. MARTINEAU.] THE NILE AND THE DESERT. 547

in the opposite case, they tremble when the heavens are alive with
meteors, and the Nile is too weak to rise and meet the sand
columns that come marching on, followed by blinding clouds of
the enemy ; and that famine is then inevitable, bringing with it
the moral curses which attend upon hunger. It is true that at such
times strangers have seen (as we know from Abdallatif, himself,
an eye-witness) how little children are made food of, and even men
slaughtered for meat, like cattle. It is true that such have been
the violent effects produced on men's conduct by extremity here \
— effects much like what are produced by extremity everywhere.
It is not of this that I am thinking when regarding the influence
on a nation of the incessant struggle between the Nile and the
Desert. It is of the formation of their ideas and habits, and the
training of their desires.

From the beginning, the people of Egypt have had everything
to hope from the river, nothing from the desert; much to fear
from the desert, and little from the river. What their fear may
reasonably be, any one may know who looks upon a hillocky ex-
panse of sand, where the little jerboa burrows, and the hyaena
prowls at night. Under these hillocks lie temples and palaces,
and under the level sands a whole city. The enemy has come in
from behind, and stifled and buried it. What is the hope of the
people from the river, any one may witness who, at the regular
season, sees the people grouped on the eminences, watching the
advancing waters, and listening for the voice of the crier, or the
boom of the cannon, which is to tell the prospect or event of the
inundation of the year. Who can estimate the effect on a nation's
mind and character, of a perpetual vigilance against the Desert,
(see what it is in Holland of a similar vigilance against the sea ;)
and of an annual mood of hope in regard to the Nile 1 Who
cannot see what a stimulating and enlivening influence this perio-
dical anxiety and relief must exercise on the character of a nation :
And, then, there is the effect on their ideas. The Nile was
naturally deified by the old inhabitants. It was a god to the mass,
and at least one of the manifestations of Deity to the priestly class.
As it was the immediate cause of all they had, and all they hoped

548 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [H. MARTINEAU.

for — the creative power regularly at work before their eyes, usually
conquering, though occasionally checked, it was to them the good
power ; and the Desert was the evil one. Hence came a main
part of their faith, embodied in the allegory of the burial of Osiris
in the sacred stream, whence he rose, once a year, to scatter bless-
ings over the earth. Then, the structure of their country origin-
ated or modified their ideas of death and life. As to the disposal
of their dead, they could not dream of consigning their dead to the
waters which were too sacred to receive any meaner body than
the incorruptible one of Osiris ; nor must any other be placed
within reach of its waters, or in the way of the pure production
of the valley. There were the boundary rocks, with the limits
afforded by their caves. These became sacred to the dead. After
the accumulation of a few generations of corpses, it became clear
how much more extensive was the world of the dead than that of
the living ; and as the proportion of the living to the dead be-
came, before men's eyes, smaller and smaller, the state of the dead
became a subject of proportionate importance to them, till their
faith and practice grew into what we see them in the records of
the temples and tombs — engrossed with the idea of death, and in
preparation for it. The unseen world, became all and in all to
them ; and the visible world and present life of little more import-
ance than as the necessary introduction to the higher and greater.
The imagery before their eyes perpetually sustained these modes
of thought. Everywhere they had in presence the symbols of the
worlds of death and life ; the limited scene of production, activity,
and change ; — the valley with its verdure, its floods, and its busy
multitudes, who were all incessantly passing away, to be succeeded
by their like ; while, as a boundary to this scene of life, lay the
region of death, to their view unlimited, and everlastingly silent
to the human ear. Their imagery of death was wholly suggested
by the scenery of their abode. Our reception of this is much
injured by our having been familiarised with it first through the
ignorant and vulgarised Greek adoption of it, in their imagery of
Charon, Styx, Cerberus, and Rhadamanthus : but if we can for-
get these, and look upon the older records with fresh eyes, it i?

H. MARTINEAU.] THE NILE AND THE DESERT. 549

inexpressibly interesting to contemplate the symbolical representa-
tions of death by the oldest of the Egyptians, before Greek or
Persian was heard of in the world ; the passage of the dead across
the river or lake of the valley, attended by the conductor of souls,
the god Anubis ; the formidable dog, the guardian of the mansion
of Osiris, (or the divine abode ;) the balance ;n which the heart or
deeds of the deceased are weighed against the symbol of Integrity ;
the infant Harpocrates — the emblem of a new life, seated before
the throne of the judge ; the range of assessors who are to pro-
nounce on the life of the being come up to judgment ; and finally
the judge himself, whose suspended sceptre is to give the sign of
acceptance — or condemnation. Here the deceased has crossed
the living valley and river ; and in the caves of the death region,
where the howl of the wild dog is heard by night, is this process
of judgment going forward : and none but those who have seen
the contrasts of the region with their own eyes, none who have
received the idea through the borrowed imagery of the Greeks, or
the traditions of any other people, can have any adequate notion
how the mortuary ideas of the primitive Egyptians, and, through
them, of the civilised world at large, have been originated by the
everlasting conflict of the Nile and the Desert.

How the presence of these elements has, in all ages, determined
the occupations and habits of the inhabitants, needs only to be
pointed out; the fishing, the navigation, and the almost amphibi-
ous habits of the people are what they owe to the Nile, and their
practice of laborious tillage to the Desert. A more striking in-
stance of patient industry can nowhere be found than in the
method of irrigation practised in all times in this valley. After
the subsidence of the Nile, eveiy drop of water needed for
tillage, and for all other purposes, for the rest of the year, is
hauled up and distributed by human labour, up to the point where
the sakia, worked by oxen, supersedes the shadoof, worked by
men. Truly the Desert is here a hard task-master; or, rather, a
pertinacious enemy, to be incessantly guarded against : but yet a
friendly adversary, inasmuch as such natural compulsion to toil
is favourable to a nation's character.

550 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [H. MARTINEAU..

One other obligation which the Egyptians owe to the Desert
struck me freshly and forcibly, from the beginning of our voyage
to the end. It plainly originated their ideas of art ; not those of
the present inhabitants, which are wholly Saracenic still : but those
of the primitive race, who appear to have originated art all over
the world. The first, thing that impressed me in the Nile scenery,
above Cairo, was the angularity in all the forms. The trees ap-
peared almost the only exceptions. The line of the Arabian hills
soon became so even as to give them the appearance of being
supports of a vast table-land, while the sand, heaped up at their
bases, was like a row of pyramids. Elsewhere, one's idea of sand-
hills is that, of all round eminences, they are the roundest ; but
here their form is generally that of truncated pyramids. The en-
trances of the caverns are square. The masses of sand left by
the Nile are square. The river banks are graduated by the action
of the water, so that one may see a hundred natural Nilometers
in as many miles. Then, again, the forms of the rocks, especially
the limestone ranges, are remarkably grotesque. In a few days,
I saw, without looking for them, so many colossal figures of men
and animals springing from the natural rocks, so many sphinxes
and strange birds, that I was quite prepared for anything I after-
wards met with in the temples. The higher we went up the
country, the more pyramidal became the forms of even the mud
houses of the modern people : and in Nubia they were worthy,
from their angularity, of old Egypt. It is possible that the people
of Abyssinia might, in some obscure age, have derived their ideas
of art from Hindostan, and propagated them down the Nile. No
one can now positively contradict it. But I did not feel on the
spot that any derived art was likely to be in such perfect harmony
with its surroundings as that of Egypt certainly is ; a harmony so
wonderful as to be, perhaps, the most striking circumstance of all
to a European, coming from a country where all art is derived,*

* Even the Gothic spire is believed by those who know best to be an at-
tenuated obelisk ; as the obelisk is an attenuated pyramid. Our Gothic aisles
are sometimes conjectured to be a symmetrical stone copy of the glades of a
forest : but there are pillared aisles at El Karnac and Medeenet Haboo, which

FORSVTH.] SOCIETY A T NAPLES. 551

and its main beauty therefore lost. It is useless to speak of the
beauty of Egyptian architecture and sculpture to those who, not
going to Egypt, can form no conception of its main condition ; —
its appropriateness. I need not add that I think it worse than
useless to adopt Egyptian forms and decorations in countries
where there is no Nile and no Desert, and where decorations are
not, as in Egypt, fraught with meaning — pictured language — mes-
sages to the gazer. But I must speak more of this hereafter.
Suffice it now that in the hills, angular at their summits, with
angular mounds at their bases, and angular caves in their strata,
we could not but at once see the originals of temples, pyramids,
and tombs. Indeed, the pyramids look like an eternal fixing
down of the shifting sand-hills, which are here the main features
of the Desert If we consider further what facility the Desert has
afforded for scientific observation— how it was the field for the
meteorological studies of the Egyptians, and how its permanent
pyramidal forms served them, whether originally or by derivation,
with instruments of measurement and calculation for astronomical
purposes ; we shall see that, one way or another, the Desert has
been a great benefactor to the Egyptians of all time, however
fairly regarded, in some senses, as an enemy. The sand may, as
I said before, have a fair side to its character, if it has taken a
leading part in determining the ideas, the feelings, the worship,
the occupation, the habits, and the arts of the people of the Nile
valley, for many thousand years.

272.— S0mig nt

FORSYTH.

QAMES FORSYTH, the author of "Remarks on Antiquities, Arts, and
Letters during an Excursion in Italy," was born at Elgin in 1763. He was
educated at Aberdeen, and subsequently became the head of a classical school
near London. His passionate desire was to see Italy; and in 1802 and 1803
he accomplished his object, and acquired the materials for the volume which

were constructed in a country which had no woods, and before the forests of
northern Europe are discernible in the dim picture of ancient history.

552 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [FORSYTH.

has given him a more enduring reputation than is won by many tourists. Upon
the rupture between England and France, which followed the short peace,
Mr Forsyth was seized at Turin, on his return home, and was detained in
Italy and France till 1814, when the allied armies entered Paris. His health
was broken by his long confinement under the brutal despotism of Napoleon,
and he died in 1815.]

Nobility is nowhere so pure as in a barbarous state. When a
nation becomes polished, its nobles either corrupt their blood
with plebeian mixture, as in England ; or they disappear alto-
gether, as in France. Now Naples, in spite of all her fiddlers,
is still in a state of barbarian twilight, which resisted the late
livid flash of philosophy ; and the nobility of Naples remains in-
corrupt. Though often cut by adultery with footmen, and some-
times reduced to beg in the streets, still is it pure both in heraldry
and opinion ; for nothing here degrades it but m&salliance, com-
merce, or a hemp rope.

The Neapolitan noblemen have seldom been fairly reported.
In England, where rank is more circumscribed, nobility generally
commands fortune or pride enough to protect it from common
contempt. At Naples it is diffused so widely and multiplies so
fast, that you find titles at every corner. Principi or de' principi,
without a virtue or a ducat. Hence strangers, who find no access
to noblemen of retired merit, must form on those of the coffee-
houses their opinion of the whole order, and level it with the
lowest lazaroni, till the two extremes of society meet in ignorance
and vice.

In fact, these children of the sun are too ardent to settle in
mediocrity. Some noblemen rose lately into statesmen and
orators in the short-lived republic; some fell gloriously; others
have enriched literature or extended the bounds of science ; a
few speak with a purity foreign to this court ; and not a few are
models of urbanity. If you pass, however, from these into the
mob of gentlemen, you will find men who glory in an exemption
from mental improvement, and affect " all the honourable points
of ignorance." In a promiscuous company, the most noted
sharper or the lowest buffoon shall, three to one, be a nobleman.

FORSYTH.] SOCIE TY A T NAPL ES. 553

In the economy of the noblest houses there is something farci-
cal. In general, their footmen, having only six ducats a month
to subsist on, must, from sheer hunger, be thieves. A certain
prince, who is probably not singular, allots to his own dinner one
ducat a day. For this sum his people are bound to serve up a
stated number of dishes, but then he is obliged to watch while
eating ; for, if he once turn round, half the service disappears.
Yet such jugglers as these find their match in his Highness ; for,
whenever he means to smuggle the remains of his meal, he sends
them all out on different errands at the same moment, and then
crams his pockets for supper. Yet, when this man gives an
entertainment, it is magnificence itself. On these rare occasions
he acts like a prince, and his people behave like gentlemen for
the day. He keeps a chaplain in his palace ; but the poor priest
must pay him for his lodging there. He keeps a numerous
household ; but his officers must play with him for their wages.
In short, his whole establishment is a compound of splendour and
meanness — a palace of marble thatched with straw.

In this upper class, the ladies, if not superior in person, seem
far more graceful than the men, and excel in all the arts of the
sex. Those of the middle rank go abroad in black silk mantles,
which are fastened behind round the waist, pass over the head,
and end in a deep black veil ; the very demureness of this costume
is but a refinement in coquetry.

If Naples be " a paradise inhabited by devils," I am sure it is
by merry devils. Even the lowest class enjoy every blessing that
can make the animal happy — a delicious climate, high spirits, a
facility of satisfying every appetite, a conscience which gives no pain,
a convenient ignorance of their duty, and a church which insures
heaven to every ruffian that has faith. Here tatters are not misery,
for the climate requires little covering ; filth is not misery to them
who are born to it ; and a few fingerings of maccaroni can wind
up the rattling machine for the day.

They are, perhaps, the only people on earth that do not pretend
to virtue. On their own stage they suffer the Neapolitan of the
drama to be always a rogue. If detected in theft, a lazarone will

554 HA LF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [FORSYTH.

ask you, with impudent surprise, how you could possibly expect a
poor man to be an angel 1 Yet what are these wretches 1 Why,
men whose persons might stand as models to a sculptor ; whose
gestures strike you with the commanding energy of a savage;
whose language, gaping and broad as it is, when kindled by
passion, bursts into oriental metaphor ; whose ideas are cooped
indeed within a narrow circle, but a circle in which they are in-
vincible. If you attack them there, you are beaten. Their exer-
tion of soul, their humour, their fancy, their quickness, of argu-
ment, their address at flattery, their rapidity of utterance, their
pantomime and grimace, none can resist but a lazarone himself.

These gifts of nature are left to luxuriate unrepressed by educa-
tion, by any notions of honesty, or habits of labour. Hence their
ingenuity is wasted in crooked little views. Intent on the piddling
game of cheating only for their own day, they let the great chance
lately go by, and left a few immortal patriots to stake their all for
posterity, and to lose it.

In that dreadful trial of men's natures, the lazaroni betrayed a
pure love of blood, which they now disavow, and call in the
Calabrians to divide the infamy. They reeled ferociously from
party to party, from saint to saint, and were steady to nothing but
mischief and the Church. These cannibals, feasting at their fires
on human carnage, would kneel down and beat their breasts in
the fervour of devotion, whenever the sacring bell went past to
the sick; and some of Ruffe's cut-throats, would never mount
their horses without crossing themselves and muttering a prayer.

On a people so fiery and prompt, I would employ every terror
human and divine against murder; yet nowhere is that crime
more encouraged by impunity. A mattress-maker called lately at
the house where I logded, with a rueful face and a " Malora !
malora !" " What is the matter]" said my landlord. " My son,
my poor Gennarro, has had the misfortune to fall out with a
neighbour, and is now in sanctuary." " What ! has he murdered
him 1 " " Alas ! we could not help it." " Wretch ! were you an
accessory too 1 " , " Nay, I only held the rascal's hands while my
poor boy despatched him." " And you call this a misfortune 1 "

CHAS. LAMB.] A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 555

" It was the will of God : what would you have ? " "I would
have you both hanged. Pray, how have you escaped the gallows]"
"Alas ! it has cost me two thousand hard-earned ducats to accom-
modate this foolish affair." "And so the relations of the dead
have compounded 2" "No, hang them ! the cruel monsters in-
sisted on bringing us both to justice. You must know, one of
the fellow's ' compari ' is a turner, who teaches the prince royal
his trade. This vile informer denounced me to his pupil, his
pupil to'the king, and the king ordered immediate search to be
made for me ! but the police paid more respect to my ducats than
to his majesty's commands. We have now pacified all concerned,
except a brother of the deceased, a malicious wretch, who will
listen to no terms." " He does perfectly right." " Not if he con-
sult his own safety. My Gennarro, I can assure you, is a lad
of spirit." "Miscreant! would you murder the brother tool"
" If it be the will of God, it must be done. I am sure we wish to
live peaceably with our fellow-citizens ; but if they are unreason-
able, if they will keep honest people away from their families and
callings, they must even take the consequences, and submit to
God's holy will." My landlord, on repeating this dialogue to
me, added, that the mattress-maker is much respected in Naples,
as an upright, religious, warm-hearted man, who would cheerfully
divide his last ducat with a friend.

CHARLES LAMB,

MAY the Babylonish curse Or in any terms relate

Straight confound my stammering verse, Half my love, or half my hate :

If I can a passage see For I hate, yet love thee, so,

In this word-perplexity, That, whichever thing I show,

Or a fit expression find, The plain truth will seem to be

Or a language to my mind, A constrained hyperbole,

(Still the phrase is wide or scant,) And the passion to proceed

To take leave of thee, Great Plant ! More from a mistress than a weed.

556

HALF HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHAS. LAMB.

Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
'Gainst woman : thou thy siege dost

lay

Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses, or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill fortune, that would thwart us,
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ;
While each man, through thy height'n-

ing steam,

Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express,
(Fancy and wit in richest dress,)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost

show us,
That our best friends do not know

us,

And for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us ;
Worse than Cerberus or Gorgon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou
That but by reflex canst show,
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle ?
Some few vapours thou mayst raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart,
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn,
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of thee meant : only thou
His true Indian conquest art ;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic ai't did ne'er presume ;
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain :
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant }
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth, and fog of the

rnind,

Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison ;
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue ;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt

you.

'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ;
None e'er prospered who defamed

thee;

Irony all, and feigned abuse,
Such as perplexed lovers use
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness

CHAS. LAMB.]

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

557

Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike ;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe —
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express ;
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrained to part
With what 's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce.
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must)

leave thee ;

For thy sake, Tobacco, I
Would do anything but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katharine of Spain ;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys ;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarred the full fruition
Of thy favours, I may catch
Some collateral sweats, and snatch
Sidelong odours, that give life
Like glances from a neighbour's

wife ;

And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces ;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquered Canaanite.

END OF VOL, III.

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1 5 Bedford Street, Covent Garden.

60U
K6
1866
v.3

Knight, Charles

Half -hours with the b<
authors A new ed., rent
and rev.

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCK

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRAR

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